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CARL VAN VECHTEN 
NOVELS 


THE TATTOOED COUNTESS 
A romantic novel with a happy ending 
PETER WHIFFLE: HIS LIFE AND WORKS 
THE BLIND BOW-BOY 

A cartoon for a stained-glass window 
FIRECRACKERS 

A realistic novel 

NIGGER HEAVEN 


BOOKS ABOUT CATS 


THE TIGER IN THE HOUSE ~ 
LORDS OF THE HOUSETOPS 


ESSAYS 
RED 
EXCAVATIONS 
INTERPRETERS 


EDITH DALE 
(Mabel Dodge Luhan) 


+ ALFRED A.KNOPF - LONDON 


i 


COPYRIGHT 1922, 1927, BY ALFRED Ay ENOPFE ear 


This edition of Peter Whiffle és 
bound in Ralph Barton’s cele- 
brated map of Paris with the 


kind permission of the artist 


MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


70 THE MEMORY OF 


MY MOTHER, 


er 


“Tingling ts the test, said Babbalanya, 
‘Yoomy, did you tingle, when that song was 
composing ?’ 

“* All over, Babbalanja.’”’ 

Herman MELVILLE: Mardi. 


“We work in the dark—we do what we can— 
we giwe what we have. Our doubt ts our passion, 
and our passion ts our task. The rest ts the mad- 
ness of art.” 


DENCOMBE: The Middle Years. 


“Tes existences les plus belles sont peut-étre 
celles qui ont subi tous les extrémes, qui ont tra- 
4 z I 
versé toutes les températures, rencontré toutes 
les sensations excessives et tous les sentiments 
contradictotres.” 
REMy DE GourRMoNT: Le Chat de Misere. 


“The man who satisfies a ceaseless intellectual 
curiosity probably squeezes more out of life in the 
long run than any one else.” 

Epmunp GossE: Books on the Table. 


“O mother of the hills, forgive our towers; 
O mother of the clouds, forgive our dreams.” 
Epwin ELLIs. 


Illustrations 


Edith Dale 
(Mabel Dodge Luhan) 


Paris Cocher 


The Café d’Harcourt 
from a photograph by Carl Van Vechten 


The Marigny Theatre 


frontispiece 


facing page 
14 


16 


20 


The Fountain of the Medici in the Luxembourg Gardens 24 


from a photograph by Deems Taylor 


Bookstalls along the Quai Voltaire 
from a photograph by Deems Taylor 


The Luxembourg Gardens 
The Parc Monceau 


Mary Garden as Manon 
from a photograph by Reutlinger 


Carl Van Vechten 
from the painting by Martha Baker 


Henry’s Bar 
Chimére on Notre-Dame 
The Boulevard Montmartre in 1907 


Regina Badet 
from a photograph by Paul Boyer 


Eve Lavalliére 
from a photograph by Talma 


Poster for Nue Cocotte! 
from a drawing by Maés Laia 


26 


28 
30 
52 


34 


54 
56 
58 
62 


64 


70 


Preface 


So few people were acquainted with Peter Whiffle 
that the announcement, on that page of the New York 
Times consecrated to wedding, birth, and obituary 
notices, of his death in New York on December 15, 
1919, awakened no comment. Those of my friends who 
knew something of the relationship between Peter and 
myself, probably did not see the slender paragraph at 
all. At any rate none of them mentioned it, save, of 
course, Edith Dale, whose interest, in a sense, was as 
special as my own. Her loss was not so personal, how- 
ever, nor her grief so deep. It was strange and curious 
to remember that however infrequently we had met, 
and the chronicle which follows will give evidence of 
the comparative infrequency of these meetings, yet 
some indestructible bond, a firm determining girdle of 
intimate understanding, over which Time and Space 
had no power, held us together. I had become to Peter 
something of a necessity, in that through me he found 
the proper outlet for his artistic explosions. I was pres- 
ent, indeed, at the bombing of more than one discarded 
theory. It was under the spell of such apparently trivial 
and external matters that our friendship developed 
and, while my own interests often flew in other direc- 


[1] 


Preface 


tions, Peter certainly occupied as important a place in 
my heart as I did in his, probably, in some respects, 
more important. Nevertheless, when I received a noti- 
fication from his lawyer that I had been mentioned in 
Peter’s will, I was considerably astonished. My as- 
tonishment increased when I was informed of the 
nature of the bequest. Peter Whiffle had appointed 
me to serve as his literary executor. 

Now Peter Whiffle was not, in any accepted sense 
of the epithet, an author. He had never published a 
book; he had never, indeed, written a book. In the 
end he had come to hold a somewhat mystic theory 
in regard to such matters, which he had only explained 
to me a few moments before he died. I was, however, 
aware, more aware than any one else could possibly 
have been, that from time to time he had been accus- 
tomed to take notes. I was as familiar, I suppose, as 
any one could be, with the trend of his later ideas, and 
with some of the major incidents in his earlier life he 
had acquainted me, although, here, I must confess, 
there were lacune in my knowledge. Still, his testa- 
mentary request, unless I might choose to accept it in 
a sense, I am convinced, entirely too flattering to my 
slender talents, seemed to be inconsistent with the 
speculative idea which haunted him, at least towards 
the end of his life. This contradiction and an enlarging 
sense of the mysterious character of the assignment 
were somewhat dispelled by a letter, dated June 17, 


[2] 


Preface 


1917, which, a few days after the reading of the will, 
his lawyer placed in my hands and which indicated 
plainly enough that Peter had decided upon my ap- 
pointment at least two years and a half before he died. 
This letter not only confirmed the strange clause in the 
will but also, to some extent, explained it and, as the 
letter is an essential part of my narrative, I offer it in 
evidence at once. 

Dear Carl—so it read: 

I suppose that some day I shall die; people do die. 
If there has been one set purpose in my life, it has 
been not to have a purpose. That, you alone, perhaps, 
understand. You know how I have always hesitated 
to express myself definitely, you know how I have 
refrained from writing, and you also know, perhaps, 
that I can write; indeed, until recently, you thought 
I was writing, or would write. But I think you realize 
now what writing has come to mean to me, definition, 
constant definition, although it is as apparent as any- 
thing can be that life, nature, art, whatever one writes 
about, are fluid and mutable things, perpetually under- 
going change and, even when they assume some sem- 
blance of permanence, always presenting two or more 
faces. There are those who are not appalled by these 
conditions, those who confront them with bravery and 
even with impertinence. You have been courageous. 
You have published several books which I have read 
with varying shades of pleasure, and you have not 


[5] 


Preface 


hesitated to define, or at any rate discuss, even that 
intangible, invisible, and noisy art called Music. 

I have begun many things but nothing have I ever 
completed. It has always seemed unnecessary or im- 
possible, although at times I have tried to carry a 
piece of work through. On these occasions a restrain- 
ing angel has held me firmly back. It might be better 
if what I have written, what I have said, were per- 
mitted to pass into oblivion with me, to become a part 
of scoriac chaos. It may not mean anything in particu- 
lar; if it means too much, to that extent I have failed. 

Thinking, however, of death, as I sometimes do, I 
have wondered if, after all, behind the vapoury curtain 
of my fluctuating purpose, behind the orphic wall of 
my indecision, there did not lurk some vague shadow 
of intention. Not on my part, perhaps, but on the part 
of that being, or that condition, which is reported to 
be interested in such matters. This doubt, I confess, 
I owe to you. Sometimes, in those extraordinary mo- 
ments between sleeping and awakening—and once in 
the dentist’s chair, after I had taken gas—the knots 
seemed to unravel, the problem seemed as naked as 
Istar at the seventh gate. But these moments are diffi- 
cult, or impossible, to recapture. To recapture them I 
should have been compelled to invent a new style, a 
style as capricious and vibratory as the moments them- — 
selves. In this, however, as you know, I have failed, 
while you have succeeded. It is to your success, modest 


[4] 


Preface 


as it may appear to you, that [ turn in my dilemma. 
To come to the point, cannot you explain, make out 
some kind of case for me, put me on my feet (or in 
a book), and thereby prove or disprove something? 
Shameless as I am, it would be inconceivable, absurd, 
for me to ask you to do this while I am yet living and 
I have, therefore, put my request into a formal clause 
in my will. After I am dead, you may search your 
memory, which J know to be very good, for such ex- 
amples of our conversations as will best be fitted to 
iluminate your subject, which I must insist—you, 
yourself, will understand this, too, sooner or later— 
is not me at all. 

When your book is published, I shall be dead and 
perhaps unconscious. If, however, as I strongly suspect, 
some current connects the life to be with the life that 
is, | can enjoy what you have done. At the best, you 
may give others a slight intimation of the meaning of 
inspiration or furnish guideposts, lighthouses, and bell- 
buoys to the poet who intends to march singing along 
the highroad or bravely to embark on the ships at sea ; 
at the worst, I have furnished you with a subject for 
another book, and I am well aware that subjects even 
for bad books are difficult to light upon. 

Salve atque Vale, 
Peter. 

This letter, I may say, astonished me. I think it 

would astonish anybody. A profound and enveloping 


[5] 


Preface 


melancholy succeeded to this feeling of astonishment. 
At the time, I was engaged in putting the finishing 
touches to The Tiger in the House and I postponed 
meditation on Peter’s affair until that bulky volume 
could be dispatched to the printer. That happy event 
fell on March 15, 1920, but my anthology, Lords of 
The Housetops, next claimed my attention, and then 
the new edition of Interpreters, for which I had agreed 
to furnish a new paper, and the writing of this new 
paper amused me very much, carrying my mind not 
only far away from cats, which had been occupying it 
for a twelvemonth, but also away from Peter’s request. 
At last, Interpreters was ready for the printer, but now 
the proofs of The Tiger began to come in, and I may 
say that for the next three months my days were fully 
occupied in the correction of proofs, for those of Lords 
of The Housetops and Interpreters were in my garret 
when the proofs of The Tiger were not. Never have I 
corrected proofs with so much concentrated attention 
as that which I devoted to the proofs of The Tiger, 
and yet there were errors. In regard to some of these, 
I was not the collaborator. On Page 240, for instance, 
one may read, There are many females in the novels 
of Emile Zola. My intention was to have the fourth 
word read, felines, and so it stood in the final proof, 
but my ambition to surmount the initial letter of Zola’s 
Christian name with an acute accent (an ambition I 
shall forswear on this present page) compelled the 


[6] 


Preface 


printer to reset the line, so that subsequently, when 
I opened the book at this page, I read with amaze- 
ment that there are many females in the novels of 
Emile Zola, a statement that cannot be readily denied, 
to be sure, but still it is no discovery of which to boast. 

It was not until September, 1920, that I had an 
opportunity to seriously consider Peter’s request and 
when I did begin to consider it, I thought of it at first 
only as a duty to be accomplished. But when I began 
searching my memory for details of the conversations 
between us and had perused certain notes I had made 
on various occasions, visited his house on Beekman 
Place to look over his effects and talk with his mother, 
the feeling of the artist for ‘nevitable material came over 
me and I knew that whether Peter had written me that 
letter or not, I should sooner or later have written this 
book about him. 

There was another struggle over the eventual form, 
a question concerning which Peter had made no sug- 
gestions. It seemed to me, at first, that a sort of hap- 
hazard collection of his ideas and pronunciamentos, 
somewhat in the manner of Samuel Butler’s Note- 
Books, would meet the case, but after a little reflec- 
tion I rejected this idea. Light on the man was needed 
for a complete understanding of his ideas, or lack of 
them, for they shifted like the waves of the sea. I can 
never tell why, but it was while I was reading William 
Dean Howells’s Familiar Spanish Studies one day in 


[7] 


Preface 
the New York Public Library that I suddenly decided 


on a sort of loose biographical form, a free fantasia in 
the manner of a Liszt Rhapsody. This settled, I literally 
swam ahead and scarcely found it necessary to examine 
many papers (which was fortunate as few exist) or to 
consult anything but my memory, which lighted up the 
subject from obscure angles, as a search-light illumi- 
nates the spaces of the sea, once I had learned to de- 
cipher the meaning of the problem. What it is all about, 
or whether it is about anything at all, you, the reader, 
of course, must decide for yourself. To me, the moral, 
if I may use a conventional word to express an uncon- 
ventional idea, is plain, and if I have not succeeded in 
making it appear so, then I must to some extent blame 
you, the reader, for what is true of all books, is perhaps 
truest of this, that you will carry away from it only 
what you are able to bring to it. 


[8] 


Chapter I 


One of my. friends, a lady, visited Venice alone in 
her middle age. It was late at night when the train 
drew into the station, and it was raining, a drizzly, 
chilling rain. The porter pushed her, with her bag, into 
a damp gondola and the dismal voyage to the hotel 
began. There were a few lights here and there but she 
had the impression that she was floating down the 
Chicago River in a wash-tub. Once she had reached 
her destination, she clambered unsteadily out of the 
black barge, wobbled through a dark passageway, in- 
haling great whiffs of masticated garlic, and finally 
emerged in a dimly lighted lobby. At the desk, a 
sleepy clerk yawned as she spoke of her reservation. 
Tired, rather cross, and wholly disappointed, she mut- 
tered, I don’t like Venice at all. I wish I hadn’t come. 
The clerk was unsympathetically explanatory, Signora 
should have visited Venice when she was younger. 

A day or so later, the lady recovered her spirits and 
even her sense of humour for she told me the story 
herself and I have always remembered it. The moment 
it passed her lips, indeed, I began to reflect that I had 
been lucky to encounter the Bride of the Adriatic in 
my youth. Paris, too, especially Paris, for there is a 


[9] 


Peter Whiffle 


melancholy pleasure to be derived from Venice. It is 
a suitable environment for grief; there is a certain su- 
perior relish to suffering there. Paris, I sometimes think, 
smiles only on the very young and it is not a city I 
should care to approach for the first time after I had 
passed forty. | 

I was, as a matter of fact, in my twenties when I 
first went to Paris—my happiness might have been 
even greater had I been nineteen—and I was alone. 
The trip across England—I had landed at Liverpool— 
and the horrid channel, I will not describe, although 
both made sufficient impression on me, but the French 
houses at Dieppe awakened my first deep emotion and 
then, and so many times since, the Normandy cider, 
quaffed in a little café, conterminous to the railroad, 
and the journey through France, alive in the sunlight, 
for it was May, the fields dancing with the green grain 
spattered with vermilion poppies and cerulean corn- 
flowers, the white roads, flying like ribbons between 
the stately poplars, leading away over the charming 
hills past the red-brick villas, completed the siege of my 
not too easily given heart. There was the stately and 
romantic interruption of Rouen, which at that period 
suggested nothing in the world to me but Emma 
Bovary. Then more fields, more roads, more towns, 
and at last, towards twilight, Paris. 

Railroads have a fancy for entering cities stealthily 
through backyards and the first glimpses of Paris, 


[10] 


FAlts Life and Works 


achieved from a car-window, were not overpleasant 
but the posters on the hoardings, advertising beer and 
automobile tires, particularly that of the Michelin Tire 
Company, with the picture of the pinguid gentleman, 
constructed of a series of pneumatic circles, seemed 
characteristic enough. Chéret was dead but something 
of his spirit seemed to glow in these intensely coloured 
affiches and I was young. Even the dank Gare Saint 
Lazare did not dismay me, and I entered into the novel 
baggage hunt with something of zest, while other busy 
passengers and the blue porters rushed hither and 
thither in a complicated but well-ordered maze. Natu- 
rally, however, I was the last to leave the station; as 
the light outside deepened to a rich warm blue, I wan- 
dered into the street, my porter bearing my trunk, to 
find there a solitary cocher mounted on the box of his 
carious fiacre. 

An artist friend, Albert Worcester, had already de- 
termined my destination and so I gave commands, 
H6tel de la Place de I|’Odéon, the cocher cracked his 
whip, probably adding a Hue cocotte! and we were 
under way. The drive through the streets that evening 
seemed like a dream and, even later, when the streets 
of Paris had become more familiar to me than those 
of any other city, I could occasionally recapture the 
mood of this first vision. For Paris in the May twilight 
Is very soft and exquisite, the grey buildings swathed 
in a bland blue light and the air redolent with a strange 


[11] 


: Peter Whiffle 


fragrance, the ingredients of which have never been 
satisfactorily identified in my nasal imagination, al- 
though Huysmans, Zola, Symons, and Cunninghame 
Graham have all attempted to separate and describe 
them. Presently we crossed the boulevards and I saw for 
the first time the rows of blooming chestnut trees, the 
kiosques where newsdealers dispensed their wares, the 
brilliantly lighted theatres, the sidewalk cafés, sprinkled 
with human figures, typical enough, doubtless, but who 
all seemed as unreal to me at the time as if they had 
been Brobdingnags, Centaurs, Griffins, or Mermaids. 
Other fiacres, private carriages, taxi-autos, carrying 
French men and French ladies, passed us. I saw Bel 
Ami, Nana, Liane de Pougy, or Otero in every one of 
them. As we drove by the Opéra, I am certain that 
Cléo de Mérode and Leopold of Belgium descended the 
steps. Even the buses assumed the appearance of gor- 
geous chariots, bearing perfumed Watteauesque ladies 
on their journey to Cythera. As we drove through the 
Tuileries Gardens, the mood snapped for an instant as 
I viewed the statue of Gambetta, which, I thought at 
the time, and have always thought since, was amaz- 
ingly like the portrait of a gentleman hailing a cab. 
What could more completely symbolize Paris than the 
statue of a gentleman perpetually hailing a cab and 
never getting one? | 

We drove on through the Louvre and now the Seine 
was under us, lying black in the twilight, reviving dark 


[12] 


Flts Life and Works 


memories of crime and murder, on across the Pont du 
Carrousel, and up the narrow Rue de Seine. The Quar- 
tier Latin! I must have cried aloud, for the cocher 
looked a trifle suspicious, his head turned the fraction 
of an inch. Later, of course, I said, the left bank, as 
casually as any one. It was almost dark when we drove 
into the open Place, flanked by the Odéon, a great 
Roman temple, with my little hotel tucked into one 
corner, as unostentatiously as possible, being exactly 
similar to every other structure, save the central one, 
in the Place. I shall stop tonight, I said to myself, in 
the hotel where Little Billee lived, for, when one first 
goes to Paris when one is young, Paris is either the 
Paris of Murger, du Maurier, or the George Moore of 
the Confessions, perhaps the Paris of all three. In my 
bag these three books lay, and I had already begun to 
live one of them. 

The patron and a servant in a long white apron were 
waiting, standing in the doorway. The servant hoisted 
my trunk to his shoulder and bore it away. I paid the 
cocher’s reckoning, not without difficulty for, although 
I was not ignorant of the language, I was unaccus- 
tomed to the simplicity of French coinage. There were 
also the mysteries of the pourboire to compute—ten 
per cent, I had been told ; who has not been told this? 
—and besides, as always happens when one is travelling, 
I had no little money. But at length the negotiations 
were terminated, not to the displeasure of the cocher, 


[13] 


Peter Whiffle 


I feel certain, since he condescended to smile pleasantly. 
Then, with a crack of his whip, this enormous fellow 
with his black moustaches, his glazed top-hat, and his 
long coat, drove away. I cast a long lingering look after 
him, apparently quite unaware that many another such 
teratological specimen existed on every hand. Now I 
followed the patron into a dark hallway and new strata 
of delight. He gave me a lighted candle and, behind 
him, I mounted the winding stairway to the first floor, 
where I was deposited in a chamber with dark red 
walls, heavy dark red curtains at the windows, which © 
looked out over the Place, a black walnut wash-hand- 
stand with pitcher and basin, a huge black walnut 
wardrobe, two or three chairs of the same wood, up- 
holstered with faded brocade, and a most luxurious 
bed, so high from the floor that one had to climb into 
it, hung with curtains like those at the window, and 
surmounted by a featherbed. There was also another ar- 
ticle of furniture, indispensable to any French bedroom. 

I gave Joseph (all men servants in small hotels in 
Paris are named Joseph, perhaps to warn off prospec- 
tive Potiphar’s wives) his vail, asked for hot water, 
which he bore up promptly in a small can, washed 
myself, did a little unpacking, humming the Matt- 
chiche the while, changed my shirt, my collar and my 
necktie, demanded another bougie, lighted it, and under — 
the humble illumination afforded by it and its com- 
panion, I began to read again The Confessions of a 


[14] 


go> He <4 


PARIS COCHER 


sbee eh 


a a ee. Sa ee ee ee 


7 i ied Bie tn 
ae a ee Sa Oe ee eee 


Fis Life and Works 


Young Man. It was not very long before I was inter- 
rupted in the midst of an absorbing passage descrip- 
tive of the circle at the Nouvelle Athénes by the arrival 
of Albert Worcester, who had arranged for my recep- 
tion, and right here I may say that I was lodged in 
the Hdtel de la Place de |’Odéon for fifty francs a 
month. Albert’s arrival, although unannounced, was 
not unexpected, as he had promised to take me to 
dinner. 

I was sufficiently emphatic. Paris! I cried. Paris! 
Good God! 

I see you are not disappointed. But Albert permitted 
a trace of cynicism to flavour his smile. 

It’s too perfect, too wonderful. It is more than I felt 
or imagined. I’m moving in. 

But you haven’t seen it.... 

I’ve seen enough. I don’t mean that. I mean I’ve 
seen enough to know. But I want to see it all, every- 
thing, Saint Sulpice, the Folies-Bergére, the Musée de 
Cluny, the Nouvelle Athénes, the Comédie Frangaise, 
the Bal Bullier, the Arc de Triomphe, the Luxembourg 
Gardens. ... 

They close at sundown. My expression was the cue 
for him to continue, They’ll be open tomorrow and any 
other day. They’re just around the corner. You can go 
there when you get up in the morning, if you do get up 
in the morning. But what do you want to do tonight? 

Anything! Everything! I cried. 


[15 ] 


Peter Whiffle 


Well, we'll eat first. 

So we blew out the candles, floated down the dark 
stairs—I didn’t really walk for a week, I am sure—, 
brushing on our way against a bearded student and a 
girl, fragrant and warm in the semi-blackness, out into 
the delicious night, with the fascinating indescribable 
odour of Paris, which ran the gamut from the fragrance 
of lilac and mimosa to the aroma of horse-dung; with 
the sound of horses’ hoofs and rolling wheels beating 
and revolving on the cobble-stones, we made our way 
—I swear my feet never touched the ground—through 
the narrow, crooked, constantly turning, bewildering 
streets, until we came out on a broad boulevard before 
the Café d’Harcourt, where I was to eat my first Paris 
dinner. 

The Café d’Harcourt is situated near the Church of 
the Sorbonne on the Boulevard Saint Michel, which 
you are more accustomed to see spelled Boul’ Mich’. 
It is a big, brightly lighted café, with a broad terrasse, 
partially enclosed by a hedge of green bushes in boxes. 
The hands of the clock pointed to the hour of eight 
when we arrived and the tables all appeared to be oc- 
cupied: Inside, groups of men were engaged in games 
of checkers, while the orchestra was performing selec- 
tions from Louis Ganne’s operetta, Les Saltimbanques. 
On the terrasse, each little table, covered with its white 
cloth, was lighted by a tiny lamp with a roseate shade, 
over which faces glowed. The bottles and dishes and 


[16] 


uaqyIa4 uv JIvD Ag ydvsbojoyd v wosf 
LUNOONVH,G GAVO AHL 


Pe 


Flts Life and Works 


silver all contributed their share to the warmth of the 
scene, and heaping bowls of peaches and pears and 
apples and little wood strawberries, ornamenting the 
sideboards, gave the place an almost sumptuous ap- 
pearance. Later I learned that fruit was expensive in 
Paris and not to be tasted lightly. Victor Maurel has 
told me how, dining one night with the composer of 
The Barber, he was about to help himself to a peach 
from a silver platter in the centre of the table when the 
frugal Madame Rossini expostulated, Those are to look 
at, not to eat! 

While we lingered on the outer sidewalk, a little 
comedy was enacted, through the dénouement of which 
we secured places. A youth, with wine in his head and 
love in his eyes, caressed the warm lips of an adorable 
girl. Save for the glasses of apéritifs from which they 
had been drinking, their table was bare. They had not 
yet dined. He clasped her tightly in his arms and kissed 
her, kissed her for what seemed to be a very long time 
but no one, except me, appeared to take any notice. 

Look! I whispered to Albert. Look ! 

Oh, that’s all right. You'll get used to that, he re- 
plied negligently. 

Now the kiss was over and the two began to talk, 
very excitedly and rapidly, as French people are wont 
to talk. Then, impulsively, they rose from their chairs. 
The man threw a coin down on his napkin. I caught 
the glint of gold. He gathered his arms about the 


[17] 


Peter Whiffle 


woman, a lovely pale blue creature, with torrid or- 
ange hair and a hat abloom with striated petunias. 
They were in the middle of the street when the waiter 
appeared, bearing a tray, laden with plates of sliced 
cucumbers, radishes and butter, tiny crayfish, and a 
bottle of white wine. He stared in mute astonishment 
at the empty table, and then picked up the coin. Fi- 
nally, he glanced towards the street and, observing the 
retreating pair, called after them: 

Mais vous n’avez pas diné! ae 

The man turned and shot his reply over his shoulder, 
Nous rentrons ! 

The crowd on the terrasse shrieked with delight. 
They applauded. Some even tossed flowers from the 
tables after the happy couple and we... we sat down 
in the chairs they had relinquished. I am not certain 
that we did not eat the dinner they had ordered. At 
any rate we began with the cucumbers and radishes 
and écrevisses and a bottle of Graves Supérior. 

That night in Paris I saw no Americans, at least no 
one seemed to be an American, and I heard no English 
spoken. How this came about I have no idea because it 
never occurred again. In fact, one meets more Ameri- 
cans in Paris than one does in New York and most of 
the French that I manage to speak I have picked up 
on the Island of Manhattan. During dinner I began to 
suspect a man without a beard, in a far corner, but 
Albert reassured me. 


[18] 


His Life and Works 


He is surely French, he said, because he is buttering 
his radishes. 

It would be difficult to exaggerate my emotion: the 
white wine, the bearded French students, the exquisite 
women, all young and smiling and gay, all organdie 
and lace and sweet-peas, went to my head. I have 
spent many happy evenings in the Café d’ Harcourt 
since that night. I have been there with Olive Frem- 
stad when she told me how, dressed as a serpent in be- 
spangled Nile green, she had sung the finale of Salome 
to Edward VII in London, and one memorable Mardi- 
Gras night with Jane Noria when, in a long raincoat 
which covered me from head to foot, standing on our 
table from time to time, I shouted, C’est l’heure fatale ! 
and made as if to throw the raincoat aside but Noria, 
as if dreading the exposure, always dragged me down 
from the table, crying, No! No! until the carnival 
crowd, consumed with curiosity, pulled me into a cor- 
ner, tore the raincoat away, and everything else too! 
There was another night, before the Bal des Quat’z 
Arts, when the café was filled with students and models 
in costume, and costume for the Quat’z Arts in those 
days, whatever it may be now, did not require the 
cutting out of many handkerchiefs. But the first night 
was the best and every other night a more or less pale 
reflection of that, always, indeed, coloured a little by 
the memory of it. So that today, when sometimes I 
am asked what café I prefer in Paris and I reply, the 


[19] 


Peter Whiffle 


d’Harcourt, there are those who look at me a little 
pityingly and some even go so far as to ejaculate, Oh, 
that ! but I know why it is my favourite. 

Even a leisurely dinner ends at last, and I knew, as 
we sipped our coffee and green chartreuse and smoked 
our cigarettes, that this one must be over. After pay- 
ing our very moderate addition, we strolled slowly 
away, to hop into an empty fiacre which stood on 
the corner a block down the boulevard. I lay back 
against the seat and gazed at the stars for a moment 
as the drive began through the warm, fragrant Paris 
air, the drive back to the right bank, this time across 
the Pont Neuf, down the Rue de Rivoli, through the 
Place de la Concorde, where the fountains were play- 
ing, and up the Champs-Elysées. The aroma of the 
chestnuts, the melting grey of the buildings, the legions 
of carriages and buses, filled with happy, chattering 
people, the glitter of electricity, ‘all the mystic wonder 
of this enchanting night will always stay with me. 

We drove to the Thédtre Marigny where we saw a 
revue ; at least we were present at a revue; I do not 
remember to have seen or heard anything on the stage. 
Between the acts, we walked in the open foyer, at this 
theatre a sort of garden, and admired the cocottes, 
great ladies of some distant epoch, they seemed to 
me, in their toilets from Redfern and Doucet and Ché- 
ruit and Callot Sceurs, their hats from the Rue de la 
Paix and the Place Vendéme, their exceedingly elabo- 


[20] 


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His Life and Works 


rate and decoratively artificial complexions. Later, we 
sipped cassis on the balcony. It was Spring in Paris and 
I was young! The chestnut trees were heavy with white 
blossoms and the air was laden with their perfume. I 
gazed down the Champs-Elysées, surely the true Ely- 
sian Fields, a myriad of lights shining through the dark 
green, the black, leaved branches. I do not think I spoke 
many words and I know that Albert did not. He may 
have been bored, but I think he derived some slight 
pleasure from my juvenile enthusiasm for, although 
Paris was old hat to him, he loved this particular old 
hat. 

We must have stopped somewhere for more drinks on 
the way home, perhaps at Weber’s in the Rue Royale, 
where there was a gipsy band. I do not remember, but I 
am sure that it was nearly four in the morning when we 
drove up before the little hotel in the Place de I’Odéon 
and when, after we had paid the driver and dismissed 
him, I discovered to my astonishment that the door was 
locked. Albert assured me that this was the custom and 
that I must ring for the concierge. So I pulled the knob, 
and even outside we could hear the distant reverbera- 
tions of the bell, but no reply came, and the door re- 
mained closed. It was Joseph’s job to open the door 
and Joseph was asleep and refused to awaken. Again 
and again we pulled the cord, the bell tinkling in the vast 
silence, for the street was utterly deserted, but still no 
one came. At last we desisted, Albert suggesting that I 


[21] 


Peter Whiffle 


go home with him. We walked a few paces until we 
came to the iron fence surrounding the Luxembourg 
Gardens and _ there, lying beside it, I espied a ladder, 
left by some negligent workman. 

But my room is on the first floor. The window is 
open ; it looks over the Place. I can enter with the lad- 
der, I cried. | 

Albert, amused, helped me carry it back. Set up, it 
just reached the window and I swiftly scaled it and 
clambered into the room, waving my hand back to 
Albert, who hoisted the ladder to his shoulder as he 
started up the street trying to whistle, Viens Poupoule ! 
but laughing to himself all the time, so that the tune 
cracked. As for me, I lighted one of my candles, un- 
dressed, threw the featherbed off to the floor, and 
climbed into bed. Then I blew out the candle and soon 
fell asleep. It was the tenth of May, 1907, that I spent 
my first night in Paris. 


[22] 


Chapter II 


It must have been nearly noon when I awakened and 
drew back the heavy curtains to let the sunlight into 
my room, as I have since seen so many French actresses 
do on the stage. I rang the bell, and when Joseph ap- 
peared, I asked for hot water, chocolate and rolls. Pres- 
ently, he returned with a little can of tepid water and 
my breakfast on a tray. While I sponged myself, I lis- 
tened to the cacophony of the street, the boys calling 
vegetables, the heavy rumbling of the buses on the 
rough pavement, the shrieking and tooting of the auto- 
mobile sirens. Then I sipped my chocolate and munched 
my croissant, feeling very happy. My past had dropped 
from me like a crustacean’s discarded shell. I was in 
Paris and it still seemed possible to live in Paris as I 
had been told that one lived there. It was exactly like 
the books. 

After my breakfast, I dressed slowly, and wandered 
out, past the peristyle of the Odéon, where I afterwards 
spent so many contented hours searching for old plays, 
on through the now open gate of the Luxembourg Gar- 
dens, gaily sprinkled with children and their nounous, 
students and sweet girls, charming old ladies with lace 
caps on their heads and lace scarfs round their shoul- 


[23] 


Peter Whiffle 


ders, and painters, working away at their canvases on 
easels. In the pool in front of the Senate, boys were 
launching their toy sloops and schooners and, a little 
farther away on the gravel walk, other boys were en- 
gaged in the more active sport of diabolo. The gardens 
were ablaze with flowers but a classic order was main- 
tained for which the stately rows of clipped limes fur- 
nished the leading note. The place seemed to have 
been created for pleasure. Even the dingy statues of 
the queens smiled at me. I sat on a bench, dreaming, 
until an old crone approached and asked me for a sou. 
I thought her a beggar until she returned the change 
from a fifty centimes piece which I had given her, 
explaining that one sou was the price of my seat. 
There were free seats too, I discovered after I had 
paid. 

The Luxembourg Gardens have always retained their 
hold over my imagination. I never visit Paris without 
spending several hours there, sometimes in the bright 
morning light, sometimes in the late afternoon, when 
the military band plays dolent tunes, usually by Mas- 
senet, sometimes a spectator at one of the guignols and, 
very often in the autumn, when the leaves are falling, 
I sit silently on a bench before the Medici fountain, 
entirely unconscious of the passing of time. The Lux- 
embourg Gardens always envelop me in a sentimental 
mood. Their atmosphere is softly poetic, old-fashioned, 
melancholy. I am near to tears now, merely thinking of 


[24] 


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His Life and Works 


them, and I am sure the tears came to my eyes even on 
that bright May morning fourteen years ago. 

Did I, attracted by the strange name, lunch at the 
Deux-Magots? It is possible. I know that later I strolled 
down the Rue de Seine and along the quais, examining 
eighteenth century books, buying old numbers of |’ As- 
siette au Beurre, and talking with the quaint vendors, 
most of them old men. Then I wandered up the Rue de 
Richelieu, studying the examples of fine bindings in 
the windows of the shops on either hand. About three 
o clock, I mounted the impériale of a bus, not even ask- 
ing where it was going. I didn’t care. I descended before 
the gate of the Parc Monceau and passed a few happy 
moments in the presence of the marble lady in a dress 
of the nineties, who reads Guy de Maupassant in the 
shadow of his bust, and a few more by the Naumachie, 
the oval pool, flanked by a semi-circular Corinthian 
colonnade in a state of picturesque ruin. 

At a quarter before four, I left the parc and, hailing 
a fiacre, bade the driver take me to Martha Baker’s 
studio in the Avenue Victor Hugo, where I had an ap- 
pointment. Martha was painting my portrait. She had 
begun work on the picture in Chicago the year before 
but when I went to New York, she went to Paris. So 
it was still unfinished and I had promised to come to 
her for more sittings. Now, in Chicago, Martha noted 
that I grew restless on the model-stand and she had 
found it expedient to ask people in to talk to me, so 


[25] 


Peter Whiffle 


that my face would not become dead and sullen. There, 
I usually knew the people she would ask, but it occurred 
to me, as I was driving to her door, that in Paris I knew 
no one, so that, if she followed her habit, I would see 
new faces. 

The cocher stopped his horse before an old stone 
house and I entered. Challenged by the concierge, I 
asked for Mademoiselle Bahker, and was directed to go 
through the courtyard into a back passageway, up the 
stairs, where I would find Mademoiselle Bahker, troisi- 
éme A gauche. I followed these instructions and knocked 
at the door. Martha, herself, opened it. 

Oh, Carl, it’s you! I’m so glad to see you! 

Martha had not changed. She and even her studio 
were much as they had been in Chicago. She is dead 
now, dead possibly of a broken heart ; certainly she was 
never happy. Her Insouciance, the portrait of Elizabeth 
Buehrmann, in a green cloth dress trimmed with fur, 
and a miniature or two hang in the Art Institute in 
Chicago, but during her lifetime she never received the 
kind of appreciation she really craved. She had an un- 
canny talent for portraiture, a talent which in some re- 
spects I have never seen equalled by any of her coevals. 
Artists, as a matter of fact, generally either envied or 
admired her. Her peculiar form of genius lay in the fa- 
cility with which she caught her sitters’ weaknesses. 
Possibly this is the reason she did not sell more pic- 
tures, for her models were frequently dissatisfied. It was 


[26] 


BOOKSTALLS ALONG THE QUAI VOLTAIRE 


From a photograph by Deems T. aylor 


Fis Life and Works 


exasperating, doubtless, to find oneself caught in paint 
on canvas against an unenviable immortality. Her sit- 
ters were exposed, so to speak ; petty vices shone forth ; 
Martha almost idealized the faults of her subjects. It 
would be impossible for the model to strut or pose before 
one of her pictures. It told the truth. Sargent caught the 
trick once. I have been informed that a physician diag- 
nosed the malady of an American lady, his patient, after 
studying Sargent’s portrait of her. 

Martha should have painted our senators, our may- 
ors, our scientists, our authors, our college presidents, 
and our critics. Posterity might have learned more from 
such portraits than from volumes of psychanalytic biog- 
raphy. But most of her sitters were silly Chicago ladies, 
not particularly weak because they were not particu- 
larly strong. On the few occasions on which in her ca- 
pacity as an artist she had faced character, her brushes 
unerringly depicted something beneath the surface. She 
tore away men’s masks and, with a kind of mystic un- 
derstanding, painted their insides. How it was done, I 
don’t know. Probably she herself didn’t know. Many an 
artist is ignorant of the secret of his own method. If I 
had ascribed this quality to Martha during her lifetime, 
which I never did, she might not have taken it as praise. 
It may not, indeed, have been her ambition, although 
truth was undoubtedly her ambition. Speculation aside, 
this was no art for Chicago. I doubt, indeed, if it would 
have been popular anywhere, for men the world over 


[27] 


Peter Whiffle 


are alike in this, that they not only prefer to be painted 
‘n masks, they even want the artist to flatter the mask 
a bit. | 

The studio, I observed at once, was a little arty, a 
little more arty than a painter’s studio usually is. It 
was arranged, of that there could be no doubt. There 
were, to be sure, canvases stacked against the wall m 
addition to those which were hanging, but they had 
been stacked with a crafty hand, one indubious of its 
effect. For the rest, the tables and couches were strewn 
with brocades and laces, and lilacs and mimosa bloomed 
:n brown and blue and green earthenware bowls on the 
tables. Later, I knew that marigolds and zinnias would 
replace these and, later still, violets and gardenias. On 
an easel stood my unfinished portrait and a palette and 
a box of paints lay on a stool nearby. 

Martha herself wore a soft, clinging, dark-green 
woollen dress, almost completely covered by a brown 
denim painter’s blouse. Her hair was her great glory, 
long, reddish gold Mélisande hair which, when uncoiled, 
hung far below her knees, but today it was knotted 
loosely on top of her head. Her face, keen and search- 
ing, wore an expression that might be described as wist- 
ful ; discontent lurked somewhere between her eyes and 
her mouth. Her complexion was sallow and she wore 
eye-glasses. 

There was some one else present, a girl, sitting in a 
shadowy corner, who rose as I entered. A strong odour 


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His Life and Works 


of Coeur de Jeannette hovered about her. She was an 
American. She was immediately introduced as Miss 
Clara Barnes of Chicago, but I would have known 
she was an American had she not been so introduced. 
She wore a shirt-waist and skirt. She had very black 
hair, parted in the middle, a face that it would have 
been impossible to remember ten minutes and which 
now, although I have seen her many times since, I have 
completely forgotten, and very thick ankles. I gathered 
presently that she was in Paris to study singing as were 
so many girls like her. Very soon, I sized her up as the 
kind of girl who thinks that antimacassars are otto- 
mans, that tripe is a variety of fish, that Cosi Fan 
Tutte is an Italian ice cream, that the pope's nose is 
a nasal appendage which has been blessed by the head 
of the established church, that The Beast in the Jungle 
is an animal story, and that when one says Arthur Ma- 
chen one means Harry Mencken. 

Well, we'd best begin, said Martha. It’s late. 

Isn’t it foo late? I was rather surprised when you 
asked me to come in the afternoon. 

Martha smiled but there was a touch of petulance in 
her reply : I knew you wouldn’t get up very early the 
morning after your first night in Paris, and I knew if I 
didn’t get you here today there would be small chance 
of getting you here at all. If you come again, of course 
it will be in the morning. 

I climbed to the model-chair, seated myself, grasped 


[29] 


Peter Whiffle 


the green book that was part of the composition, and 
automatically assumed that woebegone expression that 
is worn by all amateurs who pose for their portraits. 

That won’t do at all, said Martha. I asked Clara to 
come here to amuse you. 

Clara tried. She told me that she was studying Manon 
and that she had been to the Opéra- a. fifteen 
times to hear the opera. 

Garden is all wrong in it, all wrong, she continued. 
In the first place she can’t sing. Of course she’s pretty, 
but she’s not my idea of Manon at all. I will really sing 
the part and act it too. 

A month or two later, while we munched sandwiches 
and drank beer between the acts of Tristan und Isolde 
in the foyer of the Prinzregenten Theater in Munich, 
Olive Fremstad introduced me to an American girl, who 
informed me that a new Isolde had been born that day. 

I shall be the great Isolde, she remarked casually, and 
her name, I gathered, when I asked Madame Fremstad 
to repeat it, was Minnie Saltzmann-Stevens. 

But on the day that Clara spoke of her future tri- 
umphs in Manon, I had yet to become accustomed to 
this confidence with which beginners in the vocal art 
seem so richly endowed, a confidence which is frequently 
disturbed by circumstances for, as George Moore has 
somewhere said, our dreams and our circumstances are 
often in conflict. Later, I discovered that every unsuc- 
cessful singer believes, and asserts, that Geraldine Far- 


[50] 


EAU 


THE PARC MONC 


Pesca, <a 


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SS ar ae 


His Life and Works 


rar is instrumental in preventing her from singing at - 
the Metropolitan Opera House. On this day, I say, I 
was unaware of this peculiarity in vocalists but I was 
interested in the name she had let slip, a name I had 
never before heard. 

Who is Garden? I asked. 

You don’t know Mary Garden! exclaimed Martha. 

There! shrieked Clara. There! I told you so. No one 
outside of Paris has ever even heard of the woman. 

Well, they’ ve heard of her here, said Martha, quietly, 
pinching a little worm of cobalt blue from a tube. She’s 
the favourite singer of the Opéra-Comique. She is an 
American and she sings Louise and Manon and Traviata 
and Mélisande and Aphrodite, especially Aphrodite. 

She’s singing Aphrodite tonight, said Miss Barnes. 

And what is she like? I queried. 

Well, Clara began dubiously, she is said to be like 
Sybil Sanderson but, of course, Sanderson had a voice 
and, she hurried on, you know even Sanderson never 
had any success in New York. 

I recalled, only too readily, how Manon with Jean de 
Reszke, Pol Plangon, and Sybil Sanderson in the cast 
had failed in the nineties at the Metropolitan Opera 
House, and I admitted as much to Clara. 

But would this be true today? I pondered. 

Certainly, advanced Clara. America doesn’t want 
French singers. They never know how to sing. 

But you are studying in Paris. 


[SI] 


Peter Whiffle 


The girl began to look discomfited. 

With an Italian teacher, she asseverated. 

It delighted me to be able to add, I think Sanderson 
studied with Sbriglia and Madame Marchesi. 

Your face is getting very hard, cried Martha in 
despair. 

I think he is very rude, exclaimed the outraged and 
contumacious Miss Barnes, with a kind of leering acid- 
ity. He doesn’t seem to know the difference between 
tradition and impertinent improvisation. He doesn’t see 
that singing at the Opéra or the Opéra-Comique with a 
lot of rotten French singers would ruin anybody who 
didn’t have training enough to stand out against this 
influence, singing utterly unmusical parts like Méli- 
sande, too, parlando réles calculated to ruin any voice. 
Maeterlinck won’t even go to hear the opera, it’s so 
rotten. I wonder how much Mr. Van Vechten knows 
about music anyway ? 

Very little, I remarked mildly. 

Oh, wailed Martha, you’re not entertaining Carl at 
all and I can’t paint when you squabble. Carl’s very 
nice. Why can’t you be agreeable, Clara? What is the 
matter? | 

Miss Barnes disdained to reply. She drew herself into 
a sort of sulk, crossing her thick ankles massively. The 
scent of Cceur de Jeannette seemed to grow heavier. 
Within bounds, I was amused by her display of emo- 
tion but I was also bored. My face must have showed 


[52 


=? ae he 


MARY GARDEN AS MANON 
From a photograph by Reutlinger 


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His Life and Works 


it. Martha worked on for a moment or two and then 
flung down her brush. 

It's no good, no good at all, she announced. You 
have no expression today. I can’t get behind your mask. 
Your face is completely empty. ; 

And, I may add, as this was the last day that Mar- 
tha ever painted on this portrait, she never did get be- 
hind the mask. To that extent I triumphed, and the 
picture still exists to confuse people as to my real per- 
sonality. It is as empty as if it had been painted by 
Boldini or McEvoy. Fortunately for her future repu- 
tation in this regard, Martha had already painted a 
portrait of me which is sufficiently revealing. 

I must have stretched and yawned at this point, for 
Martha looked cross, when a welcome interruption oc- 
curred in the form of a knock at the door. Martha 
walked across the room. As she opened the door, di- 
rectly opposite where I was sitting, I saw the slender 
figure of a young man, perhaps twenty-one years old. 
He was carefully dressed in a light grey suit with a 
herring-bone pattern, and wore a neck-scarf of deep 
blue. He carried a stick and buckskin gloves in one 
hand and a straw hat in the other. 

Why, it’s Peter! cried Martha. I wish you had come 
sooner. 

This is Peter Whiffle, she said, leading him into the 
room and then, as he extended his hand to me, You 
know Clara Barnes. 


[33 ] 


Peter Whiffle 


He turned away to bow but I had already caught his 
interesting face, his deep blue eyes that shifted rather 
uneasily but at the same time remained honest and 
frank, his clear, simple expression, his high brow, his 
curly, blue-black hair, carefully parted down the centre 
of his head. He spoke to me at once. 7 

Martha has said a good deal, perhaps too much about 
you. Still, I have wanted to meet you. 

You must tell me who you are, I replied. 

I should have told you, only you just arrived, Martha 
put in. I had no idea that Peter would come in today. He 
is the American Flaubert or Anatole France or something. 
He is writing a book. What cs your book about, Peter? 

Whiffle smiled, drew out a cigarette-case of Toledo 
work, extracted a cigarette from it, and said, I haven’t 
the slightest idea. Then, as if he thought this might be 
construed as rudeness, or false modesty, or a rather vis- 
cous attempt at secrecy, he added, I really haven’t, not 
the remotest. I want to talk to you about it. . .. That’s 
why I wanted to meet you. Martha says that you know 
... well, that you know. 

You really should be painting Mr. Van Vechten now, 
said Clara Barnes, with a trace of malice. He has the 
right expression. 

I hope I haven’t interrupted your work, said Peter. 

No, I’m through today, Martha rejoined. We’re nei- 
ther of us in the mood. Besides it’s absurd to try to 
paint in this light. 


[54] 


CARL VAN VECHTEN 
Jrom the painting by Martha Baker 


His Life and Works 


Painting, Peter went on, is not any easier than writ- 
ing. Always the search for—for what? he asked sud- 
denly, turning to me. 

For truth, I suppose, I replied. 

I thought you would say that but that’s not what I 
meant, that’s not at all what I meant. 

This logogriph rather concluded that subject, for 
Peter did not explain what it was that he did mean. 
Neither did he wear a conscious air of obfuscation. He 
rambled on about many things, spoke of new people, new 
books, new music, and he also mentioned Mary Garden. 

I have heard of Mary Garden for the first time today, 
I said, and I am beginning to be interested. 

You haven’t seen her? demanded Peter. But she is 
stupendous, soul, body, imagination, intellect, every- 
thing ! How few there are. A lyric Mélisande, a caress- 
ing Manon, a throbbingly wicked Chrysis. She is the 
cult in Paris and the Opéra-Comique is the Temple 
where she is worshipped. I think some day this new 
religion will be carried to America. He stopped. Let me 
see, what am I doing tonight? Oh, yes, I know. I won’t 
do that. Will you go with me to hear Aphrodite? 

Of course, I will. I have just come to Paris and I 
want to do and hear and see everything. 

Well, we'll go, he announced, but I noted that his 
tone was curiously indecisive. We'll go to dinner first. 

You're not going to dinner yet? Martha demanded 
rather querulously. 


[35] 


Peter Whiffle 


Not quite yet. Then, turning to Clara, How’s the 
Voice? | 

It was my first intimation that Clara had thus sym- 
bolized her talent in the third person. People were not 
expected to refer to her as Clara or Miss Barnes; she 
was the Voice. 

The Voice is doing very well indeed, Clara, now quite 
mollified, rejoined. I’m studying Manon, and if you like 
Mary Garden, wait until you hear me! 

Peter continued to manipulate Clara with the proper 


address. The conversation bubbled or languished, I for- 


get which ; at any rate, a half-hour or so later, Peter and 
I were seated in a taxi-cab, bound for Foyot’s where he 
had decided we would dine; at least I thought he had 
decided, but soon he seemed doubtful. 

Foyot’s, Foyot’s, he rolled the name meditatively 
over on his tongue. I don’t know.... 

We leaned back against the seat and drank in the 
soft air. I don’t think that we talked very much. The 
cocher was driving over the bridge of Alexandre III 
with its golden horses gleaming in the late afternoon 
sunlight when Peter bent forward and addressed him, 

Allez au Café Anglais. 

Where meant nothing to me, but I was a little sur- 
prised at his hesitation. The cocher changed his route, 
grumbling a bit, for he was out of his course. 

I don’t know why I ever suggested Foyot, said Peter, 
or the Café Anglais either. We'll go to the Petit Riche. 


[56 | 


Chapter [II 


If the reader has been led to expect a chapter devoted 
to an account of Mary Garden in Aphrodite, he will be 
disappointed. I did not see Mary Garden that evening, 
nor for many evenings thereafter, and I do not re- 
member, indeed, that Peter Whiffle ever referred to 
her again. We dined at a quiet little restaurant, Boi- 
laive by name, near the Folies-Bergére. The interior, as 
bare of decoration as are most such interiors in Paris, 
where the food and wines are given more consideration 
than the mural paintings, was no larger than that of a 
_ small shop. My companion led me straight to a tiny 
winding staircase in one corner, which we ascended, and 
presently we found ourselves in a private room, with 
three tables in it, to be sure, but two of these remained 
unoccupied. We began our dinner with escargots a la 
bordelaise, which I was eating for the first time, but I 
have never been squeamish about novel food. A man 
with a broad taste in food is inclined to be tolerant in 
regard to everything. Also, when he begins to under- 
stand the cooking of a nation, he is on the way to an 
understanding of the nation itself. There were many 
other dishes, but I particularly remember a navarin be- 
cause Peter spoke of it, pointing out that every country 


[37] 


Peter Whiffle 


has one dish in which it is honourable to put whatever 
is left over in the larder. In China (or out of it, in 
Chinese restaurants), this dish is called chop suey ; in 
Ireland, Irish stew ; in Spain, olla or puchero ; in France, 
ragout or navarin; in Italy, minestra; and in Amer- 
ica, hash. We lingered over such matters, getting ac- 
quainted, so to speak, passing through the polite stages 
of early conversation, slipping beyond the poses that 
one unconsciously assumes with a new friend. I think 
I did most of the talking, although Whiffle told me that 
he had come from Ohio, that he was in Paris on a sort 
of mission, something to do with literature, I gathered. 
We ate and drank slowly and it must have been nearly 
ten when he paid the bill and we drove away, this time 
to Fouquet’s, an open-air restaurant in the Champs- 
Elysées, where we sat on the broad terrasse and drank 
many bocks, so many, indeed, that by the time we had 
decided to settle our account, the saucers in front of us 
were piled almost to our chins. We should probably 
have remained there all night, had he not suggested 
that I go to his rooms with him. That night, my second 
in Paris, I would have gone anywhere with any one. But 
there was that in Peter Whiffle which had awakened 
both my interest and my curiosity for I, too, had the 
ambition to write, and it seemed to me possible that I 
was in the presence of a writing man, an author. 

We entered another taxi-auto or fiacre, I don’t re- 
member and it doesn’t matter, there were so many pere- 


[38] 


His Life and Works 


grinations in those days, and we drove to an apartment 
house in a little street near the Rue Blanche. The house 
being modern, there was an ascenseur and I experienced 
for the first time the thrill of one of those little person- 
ally conducted lifts, in which you press your own but- 
ton and take your own chances. Since that night I have 
had many strange misadventures with these intransi- 
gent elevators, but on this occasion, miraculously, the 
machine stopped at the fourth floor, as it had been bid- 
den, and soon we were in the sitting-room of Whiffle’s 
apartment, a room which [ still remember, although 
subsequently I have been in half a dozen of his other 
rooms in various localities. 

It was very orderly, this room, although not exactly 
arranged, at any rate not arranged like Martha’s stu- 
dio, as if to set object against object and colour against 
colour. It was a neat little ivory French room, with a 
white fire-place, picked in gold, surmounted by a gilt 
clock and Louis XVI candlesticks. There were charm- 
ing aquatints on the ivory walls and chairs and tables 
of the Empire period. The tables were laden with neat 
piles of pamphlets. Beside a typewriter was ranged a 
heap of note-books at least a foot high and stacked on 
the floor in one corner there were other books, formid- 
able-looking volumes of weight and heft, ‘‘thick bulky 
octavos with cut-and-come-again expressions, appar- 
ently dictionaries and lexicons. An orange Persian cat 
lay asleep in one of the chairs as we entered, but he im- 


[59 | 


Peter Whiffle 


mediately stretched himself, extending his noble paws, 
yawning and arching his back, and then came forward 
to greet us, purring. 

Hello, George! cried Whiffle, as the cat waved his 
magnificent red tail back and forth and rubbed himself 
against Peter’s leg. 

George? I queried. 

Yes, that’s George Moore. He goes everywhere with 
me in a basket, when I travel, and he is just as con- 
tented in Toledo as he is in Paris, anywhere there is 
raw meat to be had. Places mean nothing to him. My 
best friend. 

I sat in one of the chairs and lit a ‘clemmetie Peter 
brought out a bottle of cognac and a couple of glasses. 
He threw open the shutters and the soft late sounds of 
the city filtered in with the fresh spring air. One could 
just hear the faint tinkle of an orchestra at some dis- 
tant bal. 

I like you, Van Vechten, my host began at last, and 
I’ve got to talk to somebody. My work has just begun 
and there’s so much to say about it. Tell me to stop 
when you get tired. .. . In a way, I want to know what 
you think ; in anethes way, it helps me merely to talk, 
in the working out of my ideas. But who was there to 
talk to, I mean before you came? I can see that, you 
may be interested in what I am trying to do, good God! 
in what I will do! I’ve done a lot already. ... 

You have begun your book then? 


[40] 


His Life and Works 


Well, you might say so, but I haven’t written a line. 
I’ve collected the straw; the bricks will come. I’ve not 
been idle. You see those catalogues ? 

I nodded. 

He fumbled them over. Then, without a break, with 
a strange glow of exhilaration on his pale ethereal face, 
his eyes flashing, his hands gesticulating, his body sway- 
ing, marching up and down the room, he recited with a 
crescendo which mounted to a magnificent fortissimo 
in the coda: 

Perfumery catalogues: Coty, Houbigant, Atkinson, 
Rigaud, Rue de la Paix, Bond Street, Place Vendéme, 
Regent Street, Nirvana, Chypre, Sakountala, Ambre, 
Aprés I’Ondée, Quelques Fleurs, Fougére Royale, Myr- 
baha, Yavahnah, Gaudika, Délices de Péra, Cceur de 
Jeannette, Dyer Kiss, Jockey-Club, and the Egyptian 
perfumes, Myrrh and Kyphy. Did you know that Riche-- 
lieu lived in an atmosphere heavily laden with the most 
pungent perfumes to inflame his sexual imagination? 
Automobile catalogues: Mercedes, Rolls-Royce, Ford, 
tires, self-starters, limousines, carburettors, gas. Jewel- 
lery catalogues: heaps of ’em, all about diamonds and 
platinum, chrysoprase and jade, malachite and chalce- 
dony, amethysts and garnets, and the emerald, the 
precious stone which comes the nearest to approxi- 
mating the human manifestation known as art, be- 
cause it always has flaws; red jasper, sacred to the 
rosy god Bacchus, the green plasma, blood-stone, cor- 


[41] 


Peter Whiffle 


nelian, cat’s-eye, amber, with its medicinal properties, 
the Indian jewels, spinels, the reddish orange jacinth, 
and the violet almandine. Did you know that the Em- 
peror Claudius used to clothe himself in smaragds and 
sardonyx stones and that Pope Paul II died of a cold 
caught from the weight and chill of the rings which 
loaded his aged fingers? Are you aware that the star- 
topaz is as rare as a Keutschacher Rubentaler of the 
year 1504? Yonder is a volume which treats of the glyp- 
tic lore. In it you may read of the Assyrian cylinders 
fashioned from red and green serpentine, the Egyptian 
scarabei, carved in steaschist; you may learn of the 
seal-cutters of Nineveh and of the Signet of Sennach- 
erib, now preserved in the British Museum. Do you 
know that a jewel engraved with Hercules at the foun- 
tain was deposited in the tomb of the Frankish King 
Childeric at Tournay ? Do you know of Mnesarchus, the 
Tyrrhene gem-cutter, who practised his art at Samos? 
Have you seen the Julia of Evodus, engraved in a giant 
aquamarine, or the Byzantine topaz, carved with the 
figure of the blind bow-boy, sacrificing the Psyche- 
butterfly, or the emerald signet of Polycrates, with 
the lyre cut upon it, or the Etruscan peridot repre- 
senting a sphinx scratching her ear with her hind paw, 
or the sapphire, discovered in a disused well at Here- 
ford, in which the head of the Madonna has been chis- 
elled, with the inscription, round the beasil, in Lombard 
letters. TECTA LEGE LECTA TEGE, or the jacinth engraved 


[42 


“ 
ins 


Ais Life and Works 


with the triple face of Baphomet, with a legend of darkly 
obscene purport? The breast-plate of the Jewish High 
Priest had its oracular gems, which were the Urim and 
Thummim. Apollonius Tyaneus, the sorcerer, for the 
purposes of his enchantments, wore special rings with 
appropriate stones for each day of the week. Also, in 
this curious book, and others which you may examine, 
such as George III’s Dactyliotheca Smithiana (Venice ; 
1767), you will find some account of the gems of the 
Gnostics : an intaglio in a pale convex plasma, carved 
with the Chnuphis Serpent, raising himself aloft, with 
the seven vowels, the elements of his name, above; 
another jewel engraved with the figure of the jackal- 
headed Anubis, the serpent with the lion’s head, the 
infant Horus, seated on the lotus, the cynocephalus ba- 
boon, and the Abraxas-god, Iao, created from the four 
elements; an Egyptian seal of the god Harpocrates, 
seated on the mystic lotus, in adoration of the Yoni; 
and an esoteric green jasper amulet in the form of a 
dragon, surrounded by rays. Florists’ catalogues: 
strangely wicked cyclamens, meat-eating begonias, 
beloved of des Esseintes (Henri Matisse grows these 
peccant plants in his garden and they suggest his 
work), shaggy chrysanthemums, orchids, green, white, 
and mauve, the veined salpiglossis, the mournful, rich- 
smelling tuberose, all the mystic blossoms adored by 
Robert de la Condamine’s primitive, tortured, orgias- 
tic saints in The Double Garden, marigolds and daisies, 


[43] 


Peter Whiffle — 


the most complex and the most simple flowers of all, 
hypocritical fuchsias, and calceolaria, sacred to la bella 
Cenerentola. Reaper catalogues : you know, the McCor- 
micks and the Middle West. Porcelain catalogues : Rook- 
wood, Royal Doulton, Wedgwood, Delft, the quaint, 
clean, heavy, charming Brittany ware, Majolica, the 
wondrous Chinese porcelains, self-colour, sang de boeuf, 
apple of roses, peach-blow, Sevres, signed with the fox 
of Emile Renard, or the eye of Pajou, or the little house 
of Jean-Jacques Anteaume. Furniture catalogues : Adam 
and Louis XV, Futurist, Empire, Venetian and Chinese, 
Poincaré and Grand Rapids. Art-dealers’ catalogues: Fé- 
licien Rops and Jo Davidson, Renoir and Franz Hals, 
Cranach and Picasso, Manet and Carpaccio. Book-deal- 
ers’ catalogues : George Borrow, Thomas Love Peacock, 
Ambrose Bierce, William Beckford, Robert Smith Sur- 
tees, Francis William Bain. Do you know the true story 
of Ambrose Gwinett, related by Oliver Goldsmith: the 
fellow who, having been hanged and gibbeted for mur- 
dering a traveller with whom he had shared his bed- 
chamber at a tavern, revived in the night, shipped at 
sea as a sailor, and later met on a vessel the man for 
whose murder he had been hung? Gwinett’s supposed 
victim had been attacked during the night with a severe 
bleeding of the nose, had risen and left the house for a 
walk by the sea-wall, and had been shanghaied. Cata- 
logues of curious varieties of cats: Australian, with long 
noses and long hind-legs, like kangaroos, Manx cats 


[44] 


Z oy 
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ee 


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His Life and Works 


without any tails and chocolate and fawn Siamese 
cats with sapphire eyes, the cacodorous Russian blue 
cats, and male tortoise-shells. Catalogues of tinshops : 
tin plates, tin cups, and can-openers. Catalogues of laces : 
Valenciennes and Cluny and Chantilly and double-knot, 
Punto in Aria, a Spanish lace of the sixteenth century, 
lace constructed of human hair or aloe fibre, Point d’ Es- 
pagne, made by Jewesses. Catalogues of toys : an engine 
that spreads smoke in the air, as it runs around a track 
with a circumference of eight feet, a doll that cries, 
Uncle! Uncle ! a child’s opium set. Catalogues of operas: 
Marta and Don Pasquale, Der Freischiitz and Mefisto- 
fele, Simon Bocanegra and La Dolores. Cook-Books : 
Mrs. Pennell’s The Feasts of Autolycus, a grandiose 
treatise on the noblest of the arts, wherein you may 
read of the amorous adventures of The Triumphant To- 
mato and the Incomparable Onion, Mr. Finck’s Food 
and Flavour, the gentle Abraham Hayward on The Art 
of Dining, the biography of Vatel, the super-cook who 
killed himself because the fish for the king’s dinner 
were missing, Mrs. Glasse’s Cookery, which Dr. John- 
son boasted that he could surpass, and above all, Jean 
Anthelme Brillat-Savarin’s Physiologie du Gott. Cata- 
logues of harness, bits and saddles. Catalogues of ciga- 
rettes : Dimitrinos and Melachrinos, Fatimas and Sweet 
Caporals. Catalogues of liqueurs : Danziger Goldwasser 
and Créme Yvette, Parfait Amour, as tanagrine as the 
blood in the sacred altar chalice. Catalogues of paints: 


[45 | 


Peter Whiffle 


yellow ochre and gamboge, burnt sienna and Chinese 
vermilion. Catalogues of hats: derbies and fedoras, 
straw and felt hats, top-hats and caps, sombreros, 
tam-o’shanters, billycocks, shakos and tarbooshes. 


He stopped, breathless with excitement, demanding, 


What do you think of that? 
I don’t know what to think. . 


I’m sure you don’t. That isn’t ‘an There are eae 


aries and lexicons, not only German, English, French, 
Italian, Russian, and Spanish, but also Hebrew, Per- 
sian, Magyar, Chinese, Zend, Sanscrit, Hindustani, 
Negro dialects, French argot, Portuguese, American 
slang, and Pennsylvania Dutch. 

And what are those curious pamphlets ? 

He lifted a few and read off the titles: 

A study of the brain of the late Major J. W. Powell. 

A study of the anatomic relations of the optic nerve 
to the accessory cavities of the nose. 

On regeneration in the pigmented skin of the frog and 
on the character of the chromatophores. 

The chondrocranium of an embryo pig. 

Morphology of the parthogenetic development of 
amphitrite. 

Note on the influence of castration on the weight of 
the brain and spinal cord in the albino rat. 

There are, he added solemnly, many strange words 
in these pamphlets, not readily to be found else- 
where. 


[46] 


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Oe a, a 


aor, Si not? aii 


re 


His Life and Works 


Now Peter pointed to the pile of note-books on the 
table. 

These are my note-books. I have ranged Paris for my 
material. For days I have walked in the Passage des 
Panoramas and the Rue St. Honoré, making lists of 
every object in the windows. In the case of books I 
have described the bindings. I have stopped before the 
shops of fruit vendors, antique dealers, undertakers, 
jewellers, and fashioners of artificial flowers. I have 


spent so much time in the Galeries Lafayette and the 


Bon Marché that I have probably been mistaken for a 
shoplifter. These books are full of results. What do you 
think of it? 

But what is all this for? 

For my work, of course. For my work. 

I can’t imagine, I began almost in a whisper, I was 
so astonished, what you do, what you are going to do. 
Are you writing an encyclopedia ? 

No, my intention is not to define or describe, but to 
enumerate. Life is made up of a collection of objects, 
and the mere citation of them is sufficient to give the 
reader a sense of form and colour, atmosphere and style. 
And form, style, manner in literature are everything ; 
subject is nothing. Nothing whatever, he added impres- 
sively, after a pause. Do you know what Buffon wrote : 
Style is the only passport to posterity. It is not range 
of information, nor mastery of some little known branch 
of science, nor yet novelty of matter, that will imsure im- 


[47] 


Peter Whiffle 


mortality. Recall the great writers, Théophile Gautier, 
Jules Barbey d’Aurevilly, Joris Huysmans, Oscar Wilde; 
they all used this method, catalogues, catalogues, cata- 
logues ! All great art is a matter of cataloguing life, sum- 
ming it up in a list of objects. This is so true that the 
commercial catalogues themselves are almost works of 
art. Their only flaw is that they pause to describe. If it 
only listed objects, without defining them, a dealer’s 
catalogue would be as precious as a book by Gautier. 
During this discourse, George Moore, the orange cat, 
had been wandering around, rather restlessly, occasion- 
ally gazing at Peter with a semi-quizzical expression and 
an absurd cock of the ears. At some point or other, how- 
ever, he had evidently arrived at the conclusion that 
this extra display of emotion on the part of his human 
companion boded him no evil and, having satisfied him- 
self in this regard, he leaped lightly to the mantelshelf, 
circled his enormous bulk miraculously around three or 
four times on the limited space at his disposal, and sank 
into a profound slumber when, probably with dreams 
of garrets full of lazy mice, his ears and his tail, which 
depended a foot below the shelf, began to twitch. 
Peter continued to talk: d’Aurevilly wrote his books 
in different coloured inks. It was a wonderful idea. 
Black ink would never do to describe certain scenes, 
certain objects. I can imagine an entire book written in 
purple, or green, or blood-red, but the best book would 
be written in many colours. Consider, for a moment, 


‘[48] 


His Life and Works 


the distinction between purple and violet, shades which 
are cousins: the one suggests the most violent passions 
or something royal or papal, the other a nunnery or a 
' widow, or a being bereft of any capacity for passion. 

Henry James should write his books in white ink on 
white paper and, by a system of analogy, you can very 
well see that Rider Haggard should write his books in 
white ink on black paper. Pale ideas, obviously ex- 
pressed. Gold! Think what you could do with gold! 
If silence is golden, surely the periods, the commas, the 
semicolons, and dashes should be of gold. But not only 
the stops could gleam and shine; whole silent pages 
might glitter. And blue, bright blue; what more sug- 
gestive colour for the writer than bright blue? 

Not only should manuscripts be written in multi- 
coloured inks, but they should be written on multi- 
coloured papers, and then they should be printed in 
multi-coloured inks on multi-coloured papers. The art 
of book-making, in the sense that the making of a book 
is part of its authorship, part of its creation, is not even 
begun. | 

The sculptor is not satisfied with moulding his idea 
in clay ; he gives it final form in marble or malachite or 
jade or bronze. Many an author, however, having com- 
pleted work on his manuscript, is content to allow his 
publisher to choose the paper, the ink, the binding, the 
typography: all, obviously, part of the author’s task. 
It is the publisher’s wish, no doubt, to issue the book 


[49] 


Peter Whiffle 


as cheaply as possible, and to this end he will make as 
many books after the same model as he practicably can. 
But each book should have a different appearance from 
every other book. Each book should have the aspect 
to which its ideas give birth. The form of the material 
should dictate the form of the binding. Who but a fool, 
for example, would print and bind Lavengro and Rod- 
erick Hudson in a similar manner? And yet that is just 
what publishers will do if they are let alone. 

Peter had become so excited that he had awakened 
George Moore, who now descended from the mantel- 
piece and sought the seclusion of a couch in the corner 
where, after a few abortive licks at his left hind-leg, and 
a pretence of scrubbing his ears, he again settled into 
sleep. As for me, I listened, entranced, and as the night 
before I had discovered Paris, it seemed to me now that 
I was discovering the secrets of the writer’s craft and I 
determined to go forth in the morning with a note-book, 
jotting down the names of every object I encountered. 

I must have been somewhat bewildered for I repeated 
a question I had asked before: 

Have you written anything yet? 

Not yet. ... lam collecting my materials. It may take 
me considerably longer to collect what I shall require 
for a very short book. 

What is the book to be about? 

Van Vechten, Van Vechten, you are not following 
me! he cried, and he again began to walk up and down 


[50] 


ee ae en a eee | Se 
e lat cs 


His Life and Works 


the little room. What is the book to be about? Why, it 
is to be about the names of the things I have collected. 
It is to be about three hundred pages, he added trium- 
phantly. That is what it is to be about, about three 
hundred pages, three hundred pages of colour and style 
and lists, lists of objects, all jumbled artfully. There 
isn’t a moral, or an idea, or a plot, or even a character. 
There’s to be no propaganda or preaching, or violence, 
or emotion, or even humour. I am not trying to imitate 
Dickens or Dostoevsky. They did not write books ; they 
wrote newspapers. Art eliminates all such rubbish. Art 
has nothing to do with ideas. Art is abstract. When art 
becomes concrete it is no longer art. Thank God, I know 
what I want to do! Thank God, I haven’t wasted my 
time admiring hack work! Thank God, I can start in 
at once constructing a masterpiece ! Why a list of pas- 
sengers sailing on the Kronprinz Wilhelm is more nearly 
a work of art than a novel by Thomas Hardy ! What is 
there in that? Anybody can do it. Where is the arrange- 
ment, the colour, the form? Hardy merely photographs 


— jife! 


But aren’t you trying to photograph still life? 

Peter’s face was almost purple; I thought he-would 
burst a blood-vessel. 

Don’t you understand that perfumes and reaping- 
machines are never to be found together in real life? 
That is art, making a pattern, dragging unfamiliar 
words and colours and sounds together until they 


[51] 


Peter Whiffle 


form a pattern, a beautiful pattern. An Aubusson car- 
pet is art, and it is assuredly not a photograph of still 
life. 3s Artes 

I don’t know how much more of this there was but, 
when Peter eventually stopped talking, the sunlight was 
streaming in through the window. 


[52] 


i 
| 


Chapter IV 


It was many days before I saw Peter again. I met 
other men and women. I visited the Louvre and at first 
stood humbly in the Salon Carré before the Monna Lisa 
and in the long corridor of the Venus de Milo; a little 
later, I became thuriferous before Sandro Botticelli’s 
frescoes from the Villa Lemmi and Watteau’s Pierrot. 
I made a pilgrimage to the Luxembourg Gallery and 
read Huysmans’s evocation of the picture before Mo- 
reau’s Salome. I sat in the tiny old Roman arena, Lute- 
tia’s amphitheatre, constructed in the second or third 


‘century, and conjured up visions of lions and Chris- 


tian virgins. I drank tea at the Pavillon d’ Armenonville 
in the Bois and I bought silk handkerchiefs of many 
colours at the Galeries Lafayette. I began to carry my 
small change in a pig-skin purse and I learned to look 
out for bad money. Every morning I called for mail at 
the American Express Company in the Rue Scribe. I ate 
little wild strawberries with Créme d’Isigny. I bought 
old copies of l’Assiette au Beurre on the quais and new 
copies of Le Sourire at kiosques. I heard Werther at the 
Opéra-Comique and I saw Lina Cavalieri in Thais at 
the Opéra. I made journeys to Versailles, Saint Cloud, 
and Fontainebleau. I inspected the little hotel in the 


[53] 


Peter Whiffle 


Rue des Beaux-Arts where Oscar Wilde died and I paid 
my respects to his tomb in Pére-Lachaise. The fig-leaf 
was missing from the heroic figure on the monument. 
It had been stolen, the cemetery-guard informed me, 
par une jeune miss anglaise, who desired a souvenir. I 
drank champagne cocktails, sitting on a stool, at the 
American bar in the Grand Hotel. I drank whisky and 
soda, ate salted nuts, and talked with English racing 
men at Henry’s bar, under the delightful brown and 
yellow mural decorations, exploiting ladies of the 1880 
period with bangs, and dresses with bustles, and over- 
drapings, and buttons down the front. I enjoyed long 
bus rides and I purchased plays in the arcades of the 
Odéon. I went to the races at Chantilly. I drank cock- 
tails at Louis’s bar in the Rue Racine. Louis Doerr, the 
patron, had worked as a bar-man in Chicago and under- 
stood the secrets of American mixed drinks. Doubtless, 
he could have made a Fireman’s Shirt. He divided his 
time between his little bar and his atelier, where he gave 
boxing lessons to the students of the quarter. When he 
was teaching the manly art, Madame Doerr manipu- 
lated the shaker. I attended services at Les Hannetons 
and Maurice’s Bar and I strolled through the Musée de 
Cluny, where I bought postcards of chastity belts and 
instruments of torture. I read Maupassant in the Parc 
Monceau. I took in the naughty revues at Parisiana, the 
Ba-ta-clan, and the Folies-Bergére. I purchased many 
English and American novels in the Tauchnitz edition 


[54] 


uvd S AUNTH 


His Life and Works 


and I discovered a miniature shop in the Rue de Fur- 
stemberg, where elegant reprints of bawdy eighteenth 
century French romances might be procured. I climbed 
to the top of the towers of Notre-Dame, particularly to 
observe a chimére which was said to resemble me, and 
I ascended the Tour Eiffel in an elevator. I consumed 
hors d’ceuvres at the Brasserie Universelle. I attended 
a band concert in the Tuileries Gardens. I dined with 
Olive Fremstad at the Mercédés and Olive Fremstad 
dined with me at the Café d'Harcourt. I heard Sa- 
lome at the Chatelet, Richard Strauss conducting, with 
Emmy Destinn as the protagonist in a modest costume, 
trimmed with fur, which had been designed, it was an-_ 
nounced, by the Emperor of Germany. I discovered the 
Restaurant Cou-Cou, which I have described in The 
Merry-Go-Round, and I made pilgrimages to the Rat 
Mort, the Nouvelle Athénes, and the Elysée Montmar- 
tre, sacred to the memory of George Moore. They ap- 
peared to have altered since he confessed as a young 
man. I stood on a table at the Bal Tabarin and watched 
the quadrille, the pas de quatre, concluding with the 
grand écart, which was once sinister and wicked but 
which has come, through the portentous solemnity with 
which tradition has invested it, to have almost a reli- 
gious significance. I learned to drink Amer Picon, grena- 
dine, and white absinthe. I waited three hours in the 
street before Liane de Pougy’s hétel in the Rue de la 
Néva to see that famous beauty emerge to take her 


[55 | 


Peter Whiffle 


drive, and I waited nearly as long at the stage-door 
of the Opéra-Comique for a glimpse of the exquisite 
Régina Badet. I embarked on one of the joyous little 
Seine boats and I went slumming in the Place d’ Italie, 
La Villette, a suburb associated in the memory with the | 
name of Yvette Guilbert, and Belleville. I saw that very 
funny farce, Vous n’avez rien A déclarer at the Nou- 
veautés. In the Place des Vosges, I admired the old 
brick houses, among the few that Napoleon and the 
Baron Haussmann spared in their deracination of Paris. 
On days when I felt poor, I dined with the cochers at 
some marchand de vins. On days when I felt rich, I 
dined with the cocottes at the Café de Paris. I examined 
the collection of impressionist paintings at the house of 
Monsieur Durand-Ruel, No. 37, Rue de Rome, and the 
vast accumulation of unfinished sketches for a museum 
of teratology at the house of Gustave Moreau, No. 14, 
Rue de La Rochefoucauld, room after room of uni- 
corns, Messalinas, muses, magi, Salomes, sphinxes, ar- 
gonauts, centaurs, mystic flowers, chimerae, Semeles, 
hydras, Magdalens, griffins, Circes, ticpolongas, and 
crusaders. I drank tea in the Ceylonese tea-room in 
the Rue Caumartin, where coffee-hued Orientals with 
combs in their hair waited on the tables. I gazed long- 
ingly into the show-windows of the shops where Toledo 
cigarette-cases, Bohemian garnets, and Venetian glass 
goblets were offered for sale. I bought a pair of blue 
velvet workman’s trousers, a béret, and a pair of can- 


[56] 


CHIMERE ON NOTRE-DAME 


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His Life and Works 


vas shoes at Au Pays, 162 Faubourg St. Martin. I often 
enjoyed my chocolate and omelet at the Café de la Ré- 
gence, where everybody plays chess or checkers and has 
played chess or checkers for a century or two, and where 
the actors of the Comédie Frangaise, which is just across 
the Place, frequently, during a rehearsal, come in their 
make-up for lunch. I learned the meaning of flic, gigo- 
lette, maquereau, tapette, and rigolo. I purchased a 
dirty silk scarf and a pair of Louis XV brass candle- 
sticks, which I still possess, in the Marché du Temple. 
I tasted babas au rhum, napoléons, and palmiers. I or- 
dered a suit, which I never wore, from a French tailor 
for 150 francs. I bought some Brittany ware in an old 
shop back of Notre-Dame. I admired the fifteenth cen- 
tury apocalyptic glass in the Sainte-Chapelle and the 
thirteenth century glass in the Cathedral at Chartres. 
I learned that demi-tasse is an American word, that 
Sparkling Burgundy is an American drink, and that I 
did not like French beer. I stayed away from the re- 
ceptions at the American embassy. I was devout in 
Saint Sulpice, the Russian Church in the Rue Daru, 
Saint Germain-des-Prés, Saint Eustache, Sacré-Cceur, 
and Saint Jacques, and I attended a wedding at the 
Madeleine, which reminded me that Bel Ami had been 
married there. I passed pleasant evenings at the Boite 
4 Fursy, on the Rue Pigalle, and Les Noctambules, 
on the Rue Champollion. I learned to speak easily of 
Mayol, Eve Lavalligre, Dranem, Ernest la Jeunesse, 


[57] 


Peter Whiffle 
Colette Willy, Max Dearly, Charles-Henry Hirsch, Lan- 


telme, André Gide, and Jeanne Bloch. I saw Clemen- 
ceau, Edward VII, and the King of Greece. I nibbled 
toasted scones at a tea-shop on the Rue de Rivoli. I 
met the Steins. In short, you will observe that I did 
everything that young Americans do when they go to 
Paris. | 

On a certain afternoon, early in June, I found myself 
sitting at a table in the Café de la Paix with Englewood 
Jennings-and Frederic Richards, two of my new friends. 
Richards is a famous person today and even then he was 
somebody. He had a habit of sketching, wherever he 
might be, on a sheet of paper at a desk at the Hotel 
Continental or on a program at the theatre. He drew 
quick and telling likenesses in.a few lines of figures or 
objects that pleased him, absent-mindedly signed them, 
and then tossed them aside. This habit of his was so 
well-known that he was almost invariably followed by 
admirers of his work, who snapped up his sketches as 
soon as he had disappeared. I saw a good collection of 
them, drawn on the stationery of hotels from Hamburg 
to Taormina, and even on meat paper, go at auction in 
London a year or so ago for £1,000. When I knew him, 
Richards was a blond giant, careless of everything ex- 
cept his appearance. Jennings was an American social- 
ist from Harvard who was ranging Europe to interview 
Jean Jaurés, Giovanni Papini, and Karl Liebknecht. 
He was exceedingly eccentric in his dress, had steel- 


[58] 


THE BOULEVARD MONTMARTRE IN 1907 


His Life and Works 


grey eyes, the longest, sharpest nose I have ever seen, 
and wore glasses framed in tortoise-shell. 

It had become my custom to pass two hours of every 
afternoon on this busy corner, first ordering tea with 
two brioches, and later a succession of absinthes, which 
I drank with sugar and water. In time I learned to do 
without the sugar, just as eventually I might have 
learned, in all probability, to do without the water, 
had I not been compelled to do without the absinthe.! 
I was enjoying my third pernod while my companions 
were dallying with whisky and soda. We were gossip- 
ing, and where in the world can one gossip to better 
advantage than on this busy corner, where every pas- 
serby offers a new opportunity? But, occasionally, the 
conversation slipped into alien channels. 

How can the artist, Jennings, for instance, was ask- 
ing, know that he is inspired, when neither the public 
nor the critics recognize inspiration? The question is 
equally interesting asked backwards. As a matter of 
fact, the artist is sometimes conscious that he is doing 
one thing, while he is acclaimed and appreciated for 
doing another. Columbus did not set out to discover 
America. Yes, there is often an accidental quality in 
great art and oftener still there is an accidental appre- 
ciation of it. In one sense art is curiously bound up with 
its own epoch, but appreciation or depreciation of its re- 


1 Since absinthe has come under the ban in Paris, I am informed that the 
correct form of approach is to ask not for a pernod, but for un distingué. 


[59] 


Peter Whiffle 


lation to that epoch may come in another generation. 
The judgment of posterity may be cruel to contempo- 
rary genius. In a few years we may decide that Richard 
Strauss is only another Liszt and Stravinsky, another — 
Rubinstein. 

Inspiration ! Richards shrugged his broad shepherd’s 
plaid shoulders. Inspiration! Artists, critics, public, 
clever men, and philistines monotonously employ that 
word, but it seems to me that art is created through 
memory out of experience, combined with a capacity for 
feeling and expressing experience, and depending on the 
artist’s physical condition at the time when he is at work. 

Are you, I asked, one of those who believes that a 
novelist must be unfaithful to his wife before he can 
write a fine novel, that a girl should have an amour 
with a prize-fighter before she can play Juliet, and that 
a musician must be a pederast before he can construct 
a great symphony ? 

Richards laughed. 

No, he replied, I am not, but that theory is very 
popular. How many times I have heard it thundered 
forth! As a matter of fact, there is a certain amount of 
truth in it, the germ, indeed, of a great truth, for some 
emotional experience is essential to the artist, but why 
particularize? Each as he may! 

I know a man, I went on, who doesn’t believe that 
experience has anything to do with art at all. He thinks 
art is a matter of arrangement and order and form. 


[60] 


Sse eo. eo? ee ee 


ae! a ee 


a a ee ae ee ee ee ee a als ee 

: >= = t a ea eet er eee. ee ee ee eee ees. 
wr Ts > e = = , 

, = ° iain” 2 ae 


His Life and Works 


His art then, broke in Jennings, is epistemological 
rather than inspirational. 

But what does he arrange? queried Richards. Surely 
incidents and emotions. 

Not at all. He arranges objects, abstractions : colours 
and reaping-machines, perfumes and toys. 

Long ago I read a book like that, Jennings went on. 
It was called Imperial Purple and it purported to be a 
history of the Roman Empire or the Roman Emperors. 
It was a strangely amusing book, rather like a clot of 
blood on a daisy or a faded pomegranate flower in a 
glass of buttermilk. 

At this period, I avidly collected labels. Who wrote 
it? I asked. 

I don’t remember, but your description of your friend 
recalls the book. What is the name of your friend's 
book? 

He hasn’t written a book yet. 


I see. 
He is about to write it. He knows what he wants to 


do and he is collecting the materials. He is arranging 
the form. | 
What’s it about? Jennings appeared to be interested. 
Oh, it’s about things. Whiffle told me, I suppose he 
was joking, that it would be about three hundred pages. 
Richards set down his glass and in his face I recog- 
nized the portentous expression of a man about to be 
delivered of an epigram. It came: I dislike pine-apples, 


[61] 


Peter Whiffle 


women with steatopygous figures, and men with a gift 
for paronomasia. 

Jennings ignored this ignoble interruption. George 
Moore has written somewhere, he said, that if an author 
talks about what he is going to write, usually he writes 
it, but when he talks about how he is going to write it, 
that is the end of the matter. I wonder if this is true? 
I have never thought much about it before but I think 
perhaps it is. I think your friend will never write his 
book. 

Richards interrupted again: Look at that maque- 
reau. That’s the celebrated French actor who went to 
America after a brilliant career in France in the more 
lucrative of his two professions, which ended in a wom- 
an’s suicide. His history was well-known to the leading 
woman of the company with which he was to play in 
America, but she had never met him. At the first re- 
hearsal, when they were introduced, she remarked, 
Monsieur, la connaissance est déa faite! Turning 
aside, he boasted to his male companions, La gueuse! 
Avant dix jours je l’aurai enfilée! In a week he had 
made good his threat and in two weeks the poor woman 
was without a pearl. 3 

He should meet Arabella Munson, said Jennings. She 
is always willing to pay her way. She fell in love with an 
Italian sculptor, or at any rate selected him asa suitable 
father for a prospective child. When she became preg- 
nant, the young man actually fell ill with fear at the 


[62] 


wy 


REGINA BADET 
from a photograph by Paul Boyer 


His Life and Works 


thought that he might be compelled to support both 
Arabella and the baby. He took to his bed and sent his 
mother as an ambassadress for Arabella’s mercy. Chok- 
ing with sobs, the old woman demanded what would 
be required of her son. My good woman, replied Ara- 
bella, dry your tears. I make it a point of honour never 
to take a penny from the fathers of my children. Not 
only do I support the children, often I support their 
fathers as well! 

It was sufficiently warm. I lazily sipped my absinthe. 
The terrasse was crowded and there was constant move- 
ment; as soon asa table was relinquished, another group 
sat down in the empty chairs. Ephra Vogelsang, a pretty 
American singer, had just arrived with a pale young 
blond boy, whom I identified as Marcel Moszkowski, 
the son of the Polish composer. Presently, another table 
was taken by Vance Thompson and Ernest la Jeunesse, 
whose fat face was sprinkled with pimples and whose 
fat fingers were encased to the knuckles in heavy orien- 
tal rings. I bowed to Ephra and to Vance Thompson. 
On the sidewalk marched the eternal procession of news- 
boys, calling La Pa—trie ! La Pa—trie! so like a phrase 
at the beginning of the second act of Carmen, old gentle- 
men, nursemaids, painted boys, bankers, Americans, 
Germans, Italians, South Americans, Roumanians, 
and Neo-Kaffirs. The carriages, the motors, the buses, 
formed a perfect maze on the boulevard. In one of the 
vehicles I caught a glimpse of another acquaintance. 


[63 | 


Peter Whiffle 


That’s Lily Hampton, I noted. She is the only woman 
who ever made Toscanini smile. You must understand, 
to appreciate the story, that she is highly respectable, 
the Mrs. Kendal of the opera stage, and the mother of 
eight or nine children. She never was good at languages, 
speaks them all with a rotten accent and a complete ig- 
norance of their idioms. On this occasion, she was sing- 
ing in Italian but she was unable to converse with the 
director in his native tongue and, consequently, he was 
giving her directions in French. He could not, however, 
make her understand what he wanted her to do. Again 
and again he repeated his request. At last she seemed 
to gather his meaning, that she was to turn her back 
to the footlights. What she asked him, however, ran 
like this : Est-ce que vous voulez mon derriére, maestro ? 

Now there was a diversion, an altercation at the far- 
ther end of the terrasse, and a fluttering of feathered, 
flowered, and smooth-haired and bald heads turned in 
that direction. In the midst of this turbulence, I heard 
my name being called and, looking up, beheld Peter 
Whiffle waving from the impériale of a bus. I beckoned 
to him to descend and join us and this he contrived to 
do after the bus had travelled several hundred yards 
on its way towards the Madeleine and I had abandoned 
the idea of seeing him return. But the interval gave me 
time to inform Richards and Jennings that this was the 
young author of whom I had spoken. Presently he came 
along, strolling languidly down the walk. He looked a 


[64] 


BY 


EVE LAVALLIERE 
trom a photograph by Talma 


F ‘2 ae ope abet 
Se eR. 


a ” 
Se re a eae, as nn ce URNA ee IEA AR i AI 


et ~ 5 f>' 

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. pos 


His Life and Works 


bit tired, but he was very smartly dressed, with a gar- 
denia as a boutonniére, and he seemed to vibrate with 
a feverish kind of jauntiness. 

I am glad to see you, he cried. I’ve been meaning to 
look you up. In fact if I hadn’t met you I should have 
looked you up tonight. I’m burning for adventures. 
What are you doing? 

I explained that I was doing nothing at all and in- 
troduced him to my friends. Jennings had an engage- 
ment. He explained that he had to talk at some socialist 
meeting, called our waiter, paid for his pile of saucers, 
and took his departure. Richards confessed that he was 
burning too. 

What shall we do? asked the artist. 

There’s plenty to do, announced Peter, confidently ; 
almost too much for one night. But let’s hurry over to 
Serapi’s, before he closes his shop. 

We asked no questions. We paid our saucers, rose, 
and strolled along with Peter across the Place in front 
of the Opéra and down the Rue de la Chaussée-d’Antin 
until we stood before a tiny shop, the window of which 
was filled with bottles of perfume and photographs of 
actresses and other great ladies of various worlds and 
countries, all inscribed with flamboyant encomiums, re- 
lating to the superior merits of Serapi’s wares and testi- 
fying to the superlative esteem in which Serapi himself 


was held. 


Led by Peter, in the highest exuberance of nervous 


[65] 


Peter Whiffle 


excitement but still, I thought, looking curiously tired, 
we passed within the portal. We found ourselves in a 
long narrow room, surrounded on two sides by glass 
cases, in which, on glass shelves, were arranged the 
products of the perfumer’s art. At the back, there was 
a cashier’s desk without an attendant ; at the front, the 
show-window. In the centre of the room, the focus of a 
group of admiring women, stood a tawny-skinned Ori- 
ental—perhaps concretely an Arabian—with straight 
black hair and soft black eyes. His physique was mag- 
nificent and he wore a morning coat. oe this 
was Serapi himself. 

Peter, who had now arrived at a state in which he 
could with difficulty contain his highly wrought emo- 
tion—and it was at this very moment that I began to 
suspect him of collecting amusements along with his 
other objects—in a whisper confirmed my conjecture. 
The ladies, delicately fashioned Tanagra statuettes in 
tulle and taffeta and chiffon artifices from the smartest 
shops, in hats on which bloomed all the posies of the 
season and posies which went beyond any which had 
ever bloomed, were much too attractive to be duchesses, 
although right here I must pause to protest that even 
duchesses sometimes have their good points : the Duch- 
ess of Talleyrand has an ankle and the Duchess of 
Marlborough, a throat. The picture, to be recalled later 
when Mina Loy gave me her lovely drawing of Eros 
being spoiled by women, was so pleasant, withal slightly 


[66] 


His Life and Works 


ridiculous, that Richards and I soon caught the infec- 
tion of Peter’s scarcely masked laughter and our eyes, 
too, danced. We made some small pretence of examin- 
ing the jars and bottles of Scheherazade, Ambre, and 
Chypre in the cases, but only a small pretence was 
necessary, as the ladies and their Arab paid not the 
slightest attention to us. 

At length, following a brief apology, Serapi broke 
through the ranks and disappeared through a doorway 
behind the desk at the back of the room. As the cur- 
tains lifted, I caught a glimpse of a plain, business-like 
woman, too dignified to be a mere clerk, obviously the 
essential wife of the man of genius. He was gone only a 
few seconds but during those seconds the chatter ceased 
abruptly. It was apparent that the ladies had come 
singly. They were not acquainted with one another. 
As Serapi re-entered, they chirped again, peeped and 
twittered their twiddling tune, the words of which were 
Ah! and Oh! In one hand, he carried a small crystal 
phial to which a blower was attached. He explained that 
the perfume was his latest creation, an hermetic con- 
fusion of the dangers and ardours of Eastern life and 
death, the concentrated essence of the unperfumed 
flowers of Africa, the odour of their colours, he elabo- 
rated, wild desert existence, the mouldering tombs of 
the kings of Egypt, the decaying laces of a dozen By- 
zantine odalisques, a fragrant breath or two from the 
hanging gardens of Babylon, and a faint suggestion of 


[67] 


Peter W hiffle 


the perspiration of Istar. It is my reconstruction, the 
artist concluded, of the perfume which Ruth employed 
to attract Boaz! The recipe is an invention based on a 
few half-illegible lines which I discovered in the beauty- 
table book of an ancient queen of Georgia, perhaps that 
very Thamar whose portrait has been painted in seduc- 
tive music by the Slav composer, Balakireff. - 

The ladies gasped. The fascinating Arab pressed the 
rubber bulb and blew the cloying vapours into their 
faces, adjuring them, at the same time, to think of 
Thebes or Haroun-Al-Raschid or the pre-Adamite sul- 
tans. The room was soon redolent with a heavy vicious 
odour which seemed to reach the brain through the ol- 
factory nerves and to affect the will like ether. 

He is the only man alive today, whispered Peter, 
not without reverence, who has taken Flaubert’s phrase 
seriously. He passes his nights dreaming of larger flow- 
ers and stranger perfumes. I believe that he could in- 
vent a new vice! | 

Serapi went the round of the circle with his mystic 
spray, and the twitterings of the ladies softened to ec- 
static coos, like the little coos of dismay and delight of 
female cats who feel the call of pleasure, when suddenly 
the phial fell from the Arab’s unclasped hand, the hand 
itself dropped to his side, the brown skin became a vivid 
green, all tension left his body, and he crumbled into a 
heap on the floor. The ladies shrieked ; there was a de- 
licious, susurrous, rainbow swirl and billow of tulle and 


[68] 


His Life and Works 


taffeta and chiffon; there was a frantic nodding and 
waving of sweet-peas, red roses, dandelions, and ma- 
genta bell-flowers ; and eight pairs of white-gloved arms 
circled rhythmically in the air. The effect was worthy 
of the Russian Ballet and, had Fokine been present, it 
would doubtless have been perpetuated to the subse- 
quent enjoyment of audiences at Covent Garden and 
the Paris Opéra. 

Now, an assured and measured step was heard. From 
a room in the rear, the calm, practical presence entered, 
bearing a glass of water. The ladies moved a little to 
one side as she knelt before the recumbent figure and 
sprinkled the green face. Serapi almost immediately 
began to manifest signs of recovery ; his muscles began 
to contract and his face regained its natural colour. We 
made our way into the open air and the warm western 
sunlight of the late afternoon. Peter was choking with 
laughter. I was chuckling. Richards was too astonished 
to express himself. 

Life is sometimes artistic, Peter was saying. Some- 
times, if you give it a chance and look for them, it 
makes patterns, beautiful patterns. But Serapi excelled 
himself today. He has never done anything like this 
before. I shall never go back there again. It would be 
an anticlimax. 

We dined somewhere, where I have forgotten. It is 
practically the only detail of that evening which has 
escaped my memory. I remember clearly how Richards 


[69 | 


Peter Whiffle 


sat listening in silent amazement to Peter’s arguments 
and decisions on dreams and circumstances, erected on 
bewilderingly slender hypotheses. He built up, one after 
another, the most gorgeous and fantastic temples of 
theory ; five minutes later he demolished them with 
a sledge-hammer or a feather. It was gay talk, fancy 
wafted from nowhere, unimportant, and vastly enter- 
taining. Indeed, who has ever talked like Peter? 

We seemed to be in his hands. At any rate neither 
Richards nor I offered any suggestions. We waited to 
hear him tell us what we were to do. About nine o'clock, 
while we were sipping our cognac, he informed us that 
our next destination would be La Cigale, a music hall 
on the outer circle of the boulevards in Montmartre, 
where there was to be seen a revue called, Nue Cocotte, 
of which I still preserve the poster, drawn by Maés 
Laia, depicting a fat duenna, fully dressed, wearing a 
red wig and adorned with pearls, and carrying a lor- 
gnette, a more plausible female, nude, but for a hat, veil, 
feather boa, and a pair of high boots with yellow tops: 
over which protrude an inch or two of blue sock, and 
an English comic, in a round hat, a yellow checked suit, 
bearing binoculars, all three astride a remarkably vivid 
red hobby horse whose feet are planted in the attitude 
of bucking. The comic grasps the bobbed black tail of 
the nag in one hand and the long yellow braid of the 
female in the other. 

The cocottes of the period were wont to wear very 


[70] 


ste se-s08 = 
eee 


f 


J \ \ 


vig 
AS d'|, | \y 


POSTER FOR NUE COCOTTE! 
from a drawing by Maes Laia 


~ - 


His Life and Works 


large bell-shaped hats. Lily Elsie, who was appearing 
in The Merry Widow in London, followed this fashion 
and, as a natural consequence, these head-decorations 
were soon dubbed, probably by an American, Merry 
Widow hats. Each succeeding day, some girl would ap- 
pear on the boulevards surmounted by a greater mon- 
strosity than had been seen before. Discussion in regard 
to the subject, editorial and epistolary, raged at the mo- 
ment in the Paris journals. 

Once we were seated in our stalls on the night in ques- 
tion, it became evident that the hat of the cocotte in 
front of Peter completely obscured his view of the stage. 
He bent forward and politely requested her to remove 
it. She turned and explained with equal politeness and 
a most entrancing smile that she could not remove her 
hat without removing her hair, surely an impossibility, 
Monsieur would understand. Monsieur understood per- 
fectly but, under the circumstances, would Madame 
have any objection if Monsieur created a disturbance? 
Madame, her eyes shining with mirth, replied that she 
would not have the tiniest objection, that above all else 
in life she adored fracases. They were of a delight to her. 
At this juncture in the interchange of compliments 
the curtain rose disclosing a row of females in mauve 
dresses, bearing baskets of pink roses. Presently the 
- compére appeared. 

Chapeau! cried Peter, in the most stentorian voice I 
have ever heard him assume. Chapeau ! 


[71] 


Peter Whiffle 


The spectators turned to look at the valiant Ameri- 
can. Several heads nodded sympathy and approval. 

Chapeau! Peter called again, pointing to the adorable 
little lady in front of him, who was enjoying the atten- 
tion she had created. Her escort, on the other hand, 
squirmed a little. 

The cry was now taken up by other unfortunate 
gentlemen in the stalls, who were placed in like situa- 
tions but who had lacked the courage to begin the 
battle. The din, indeed, soon gained such a degree of 
dynamic force that not one word of what was being 
said on the stage, not one note of the music, could be 
distinguished. Gesticulating figures stood up in every 
part of the theatre, shrieking and frantically waving 
canes. The compére advanced to the footlights and ap- 
peared to be addressing us, much in the manner of an 
actor attempting to stem a fire stampede in a playhouse, 
but, of course, he was inaudible. As he stepped back, a 
sudden lull succeeded to the tumult. Peter took advan- 
tage of this happy quiet to interject : Comme Mélisande, 
je ne suis pas heureux ici! 

The spectators roared and screamed; the house rocked 
with their mirth. Even the mimes were amused. Now, 
escorted by two of his secretaries in elaborate coats 
decorated with much gold braid, the manager of the 


theatre appeared, paraded solemnly down the aisle to 


our seats and, with a bow, offered us a box, which we 
accepted at once and in which we received homage for 


[72] 


LILY ELSIE IN THE MERRY WIDOW 
from a photograph by Foulsham and Banfield 


ae 


His Life and Works 


the remainder of the evening. At last we could see the 
stage and enjoy the blonde Idette Bremonval, the bru- 
nette Jane Merville, the comic pranks of Vilbert and 
Prince, and the Festival of the Déesse Raison. 

The performance concluded, the pretty lady who had 
not removed her hat, commissioned her reluctant escort 
to inquire if we would not step out for a drink with 
them. The escort was not ungracious but, obviously, 
he lacked enthusiasm. The lady, just as obviously, had 
taken a great fancy to Peter. We went to the Rat Mort, 
where we sat on the terrasse, the lady gazing steadily 
at her new hero and laughing immoderately at his every 
sally. Peter, however, quickly showed that he was rest- 
less and presently he rose, eager to seek new diversions. 
We hailed a passing fiacre and jumped in, while the lady 
waved us pathetic adieux. Her companion seemed dis- 
tinctly relieved by our departure. Peter was now in the 
highest animal spirits. All traces of fatigue had fled from 
his face. The horse which drew our fiacre was a poor, 
worn-out brute, like so many others in Paris, and the 
cocher, unlike so many others in Paris, was kind-hearted 
and made no effort to hasten his pace. We were crawling 
down the hill. 

I will race you! cried Peter, leaping out (he told me 
afterwards that he had once undertaken a similar ex- 
ploit with a Bavarian railway train). 

Meet me at the Olympia Bar! he cried, dashing on 
ahead. 


[73] 


Peter Whiffle 


The cocher grunted, shook his head, mumbled a few 
unintelligible words to the horse, and we drove on more 
slowly than before. Peter, indeed, was soon out of 
sight. | 

Ten minutes later, as we entered the café under the 
Olympia Music Hall, we noted with some surprise that 
the stools in front of the bar, on which the cocottes 
usually sat with their feet on the rungs, their trains 
dragging the floor, were empty. The crowd had gathered 
at the other end of the long hall and the centre of the 
crowd was Peter. He was holding a reception, a recep- 
tion of cocottes ! 

Ah! Good evening, Mademoiselle Rolandine de Mau- 
preaux, he was saying as he extended his hand, I am de- 
lighted to greet you here tonight. And if this isn’t dear 
little Mademoiselle Célestine Sainte-Résistance and her 
charming friend, Mademoiselle Edmée Donnez-Moi! 
And Camille! Camille la Grande! Quelle chance de 
vous voir! Et Madame, votre mére, elle va bien? Et 
Giséle la Belle! Mais vous avez oublié de m’écrire! Do 
not, I pray you, neglect me again. And the charming 
Hortense des Halles et de chez Maxim, and the particu- 
larly adorable Abélardine de Belleville et de la Place 
d’Italie. Votre sceur va mieux, j)’espére. Then, drawing 
us in, Permettez-moi, mesdemoiselles, de vous presenter 
mes amis, le Duc de Rochester et le Comte de Cedar 
Rapids. Spécialement, mesdemoiselles, permettez-moi 
de vous recommander le Comte de Cedar Rapids. 


[74] 


i 


IDETTE BREMONVAL 
from a photograph by Paul Boyer 


His Life and Works 


He had never, of course, seen any of them before, but 
they liked it. 

Richards grumbled, It’s bloody silly, but he was 
laughing harder than I was. 

I heard one of the girls say, Le jeune Américain est 
PO ese 

And the antiphony followed, Mais il est charmant. 

Later, another remarked, Je crois que je vais lui de- 
mander de me faire une politesse ! 

Overhearing which, Peter rejoined, Avec plaisir, Ma- 
demoiselle. Quel genre? 

It was all gay, irresponsible and meaningless, per- 
haps, but gay. We sat at tables and drank and smoked 
and spun more fantasies and quaint conceits until a late 
hour, and that night I learned that even French cocottes 
will occasionally waste their time, provided they are suf- 
ficiently diverted. Towards four o’clock in the morning, 
however, I began to note a change in Peter’s deport- 
ment and demeanour. There were moments when he 
sat silent, a little aloof, seemingly the prey of a melan- 
choly regret, too well aware, perhaps, that the atmos- 
phere he had himself created would suck him into its 
merry hurricane. I caught the lengthening shadows 
under his eyes and the premonitory hollows in his 
cheeks. And this time, therefore, it was I who sug- 
gested departure. Peter acceded, but with an air of 
wistfulness as if even the effort of moving from an un- 
comfortable situation were painful to him. Rising, we 


[75] 


Peter Whiffle 


kissed our hands to the band of sirens, who all pressed 
forward like the flower maidens of Parsifal and with 
equal success. Three of the pretty ladies accompanied 
us upstairs to the sidewalk and every one of the three 
kissed Peter on the mouth, but not one of them offered 
to kiss Richards or me. 

We engaged another fiacre and drove up thie Champs- 
Elysées. Now, it was Richards and I who had become 
vibrant. Peter was silent and old and apart. The dawn, 
the beautiful indigo dawn of Paris was upon us. The 
cool trees were our only companions in the deserted 
streets until, near the great grey arch, we began to en- 
counter the wagons laden with vegetables, bound for 
the Halles, wagons on which carrots, parsnips, turnips, 
onions, radishes, and heads of lettuce were stacked in 
orderly and intricate patterns. The horses, the reins 
drooping loosely over their backs, familiar with the 
route, marched slowly down the wide avenue, while 
the drivers in their blue smocks, perched high on the 
fronts of their carts, slept. We drove past them up the 
Avenue du Bois-de-Boulogne into the broadening day- 
light. On Peter Whiffle’s countenance were painted the 
harsh grey lines of misery and despair. 


[76] 


i 
sete 
a 
y 


sssseias 
Pie 


TR tite: 
ee 


THE OLYMPIA BAR 
; from a postcard of the period 


~ 


San 


Chapter V 


Notwithstanding that Peter occupied an undue share 
of my waking thoughts for the next few days, perhaps 
a week went by before I found it convenient to seek him 
out again. One afternoon, I shook myself free from other 
entertainments and made my way in a taxi-auto to the 
apartment in the street near the Rue Blanche. The con- 
cierge, who was knitting at a little window adjacent to 
the door, informed me that to the best of her belief 
Monsieur Whiffle was at home. Venturing to operate the 
ascenseur alone, I was somewhat proud of my success 
in reaching the fourth floor without accident. Standing 
before Peter’s door, I could hear the sound of a woman’s 
voice, singing Manon’s farewell to her little table: 

Adieu, notre petite table, 
Qui nous réunit si souvent! 


Adieu, notre petite table, 
Si grande pour nous cependant. 


On tient, c’est inimaginable, 
Si peu de place en se serrant. 


The voice was a somewhat uncertain soprano with a 
too persistent larmoyante quality. When it ceased, I 
pressed the button and the door was opened by 
Peter, in violet and grey striped pyjamas and Japanese 


[77] 


Peter Whiffle 


straw sandals with purple velvet straps across his 
toes. 

Van Vechten! he cried. It’s you! We’ve been home 
all day. Clara’s been singing. | 
So the voice was Clara’s. She sat, indeed, on the long 
piano bench—the piano was an acquisition since my last 
visit—also slightly clad. She was wearing, to be exact, 
a crépe de chine night-dress. Her feet were bare and 
her hair was loose but, as the day was cool, she had 
thrown across her shoulders a black Manila shawl, 
embroidered with huge flowers of Chinese vermilion 

and magenta. 

How are you, Mr. Van Vechten? she asked, extending 
her hand. I’ll get some tea. Her manner, I noted, was 
more ingratiating than it had been the day we met at 
Martha’s. 

Nothing whatever was said about the situation, if 
there was a situation. For my part, I may say that I 
was entirely unaccustomed to walking into an apart- 
ment at five o'clock in the afternoon and discovering the 
host in pyjamas, conversing intimately with a lightly- 
clad lady, who, a week earlier, I had every reason to 
believe, had been only a casual acquaintance. The room, 
too, had been altered. The piano, a Pleyel baby grand, 
occupied a space near the window and George Moore 
was sitting on it, finding it an excellent point of van- 
tage from which to scan the happenings in the outside 
world. Naturally his back was turned and he did not 


[78] 


Ais Life and Works 


get up, taking his air of indifference from Peter and 
Clara or, perhaps, they had taken their air from him. 
The note-books had disappeared, although a pile of 
miscellaneous volumes, on top of which I spied Jean 
Lombard’s |’Agonie, still occupied the corner. The table 
was covered with a cloth and the remains of a lunch, 
which had evidently consisted of veal kidneys, toast, 
and coffee. I detected the odour of Coeur de Jeannette 
and presently I descried a briéle-parfum, a tiny jade 
dragon, valiantly functioning. A pair of long white 
suéde gloves and a black hat with a grey feather deco- 
rated the clock and candelabra on the mantelshelf, and 
a black and white check skirt, a pair of black silk stock- 
ings, and low patent-leather lady’s shoes in trees were 
also to be seen, lying over a chair and on the floor. 

Peter, however, attempted no explanations. Indeed, 
none was required, except perhaps for a catechumen. 
He began to talk immediately, in an easy conversational 
tone, evidently trying to cover my confusion. His man- 
ner reminded me that an intelligent Negro, who had 
written many books and met many people, had once 
told me that he was always obliged to spend at least 
ten minutes putting new white acquaintances at their 
ease, making them feel that it was unnecessary for them 
to put him at his ease. It is a curious fact that the man 
in an embarrassing situation is seldom as much embar- 
rassed as the man who breaks in upon it. 

Peter asked many questions about what I had been 


[79] 


Peter Whiffle 


doing, inquired about Richards, whom he avowed he 
liked—they had not, I afterwards recalled, exchanged 
more than three words—and concluded with a sort of 
rhapsody on Clara’s voice, which he pronounced mag- 
nificently suited to the new music. 

Presently Clara herself came back into the room, 
bearing a tray with a pot of tea, toast and petits fours. 
She placed her burden on the piano bench while she 
quickly swept the débris from the table. Then she trans- 
ferred the tea service to the unoccupied space and we 
drew up our chairs. 

Where have you been? asked Clara. Martha says she 
hasn’t seen you. Will you have one lump or two? 

Two. You know, when one comes to Paris for the first 
time— 

I took Van Vechten about a bit the other night, Peter 
broke in. I think I forgot to tell you. We’ ve had so much 
to talk about. ... 

Clara interrupted the shadow of an anserine smile to 
nibble a pink cake. Her legs protruded at an odd angle 
and I caught myself looking at her thick ankles. 

You’re looking at my legs! she exclaimed. You 
mustn’t do that! I have very ugly legs. 

But they’re very sympathetic ! cried Peter. Don’t you 
think they’re sympathetic, Van Vechten? 

I assured him that I did and we went on talking, a 
little constrainedly, I thought, about nothing in par- 
ticular until, at length, Peter asked Clara if she would 


[80] 


His Life and Works 


sing again. Without waiting for a reply, he seated him- 
self before the piano and began the prelude to Manon’s 
air in the Cours la Reine scene and Clara, without ris- 
ing, sang: 

Je marche sur tous les chemins 

Aussi bien qu’une souveraine ; 


On s’incline, on baise mes mains, 
Car par la beauté je suis reine! 


Now her voice had lost the larmoyante quality, which 
evidently was a part of her bag of tricks for more emo- 
tional song, but it had acquired a hard brilliancy which 
was even more disagreeable to the ear. She had also, 
I remarked, no great regard for the pitch and little, 
if any, expressiveness. Nevertheless, Peter wheeled 
around, after an accompaniment which was even less 
sympathetic to me than Clara’s legs, to exclaim: 

Superb! I want her to study Isolde. 

Peter doesn’t understand, explained Clara, that you 
must begin with the lighter parts. If I sang Isolde now 
I would have no voice in five years. Isolde will come 
later. I can sing Isolde after I have lost my voice. My 
first rdles will be Manon, Violetta, and Juliette. It’s old 
stuff, perhaps, but it doesn’t injure the voice, and the 
voice is my first consideration. Now I wouldn't sing 
Salome if they offered me 500 francs a night. 

Did you hear about Adelina Patti? asked Peter. She 
is a good Catholic. She went to a performance of Salome 
at the ChAtelet and while Destinn was osculating the 


[81] 


Peter Whiffle 


head of Jochanaan she dropped to her knees in her loge 
and began to pray ! 

I don’t blame her, said Clara. It’s rotten and im- 
moral, Salome — not the play, I don’t mean that, but 
the music, rotten, immoral music, ruinous to the voice. 
Patti was probably praying God for another Rossini. 
Strauss’s music will steal ten years from Destinn’s 
career. 

Peter eyed her with adoration. After a few more re- 
marks, I made my departure, both of them urging me 
to come again at any time. Peter had not said one word 
about his writing, I reflected, as I walked down the 
stairs, and he had been very exaggerated in his praise 
of Clara’s meagre talents. 

And I did not go back. I did not see Peter again that 
summer ; I did not see him again, in fact, for nearly six 
years. My further adventures, which included a trip to 
London, to Munich, where I attended the Wagner and 
Mozart festivals, to Holland and Belgium, were suffi- 
ciently diverting but, as they have no bearing on Peter’s 
history, I shall not relate them now. They will fall into 
their proper chapters in my autobiography, which Al- 
fred A. Knopf will publish in two volumes in the fall 
of 1936. 

Although I did not learn the facts I am about to cata- 
logue until a much later date—some of them, indeed, 
not until after Peter’s death—this seems as good a place 
as any to tell what I know of his early life. He was born 


[82] 


= z — 4 
‘ = oo a Rie Son bi 
eee ae Te ee eee 


r =" : 

SANG fie nd’ ee 

Pe es i i wee 

Oe ae ee ee Ty f: moe Pads, Cn ae 


His Life and Works 


June 5, 1885, in Toledo, Ohio. He never told his age to 
any one and I only discovered it after his death. If an 
inquiry were made concerning it, it was his custom to 
counter with another question : How old do you think 
I am? and then to add one year to the reply, thus in- 
suring credence. So I have heard him give himself ages 
varying from eighteen to forty-five, but he was only 
thirty-four when he died in 1919. 

His father was cashier in a bank, a straight, serious, 
plain sort of man, of the kind that is a prop to a small 
town, looked up to and respected, asked whether an 
election will have an effect on stock values, and whether 
it is better to illuminate one’s house with gas or elec- 
tricity. His mother was a small woman with a pleasant 
face and red hair which she parted in the centre. Kind- 
liness she occasionally carried almost to the point of 
silliness. She was somewhat garrulous, too, but she was 
well-read, not at all ignorant, and at surprising mo- 
ments gave evidence of possessing a small stock of com- 
mon sense. I think Peter inherited a good deal of his 
quality from his mother, who was a Fotheringay of West 
Chester, Pennsylvania. I met her for the first time soon 
after her husband’s death. She was wearing, in addition 
to a suitable mourning garment, five chains of Chinese 
beads and seemed moderately depressed. 

Peter’s resemblance to Buridan’s donkey (it will be 
remembered that the poor beast wavered between the 
hay and the water until he starved to death) began with 


[83 | 


Peter Whiffle 


his very birth. He could not, indeed, decide whether he 
would be born or not. The family physician, by the aid 
of science and the knife, decided the matter for him. 
Soon thereafter he often hesitated between the milk- 
bottle and the breast. There was, doubtless, a certain 
element of restlessness and curiosity connected with this 
vacillation, a desire to miss nothing in life. It is possible 
that the root of this aggressive instinct might have been 
deracinated but Mrs. Whiffle, with a foresense of the de- 
crees of the most modern motherhood, held no brief for 
suppressed desires. Baby Peter was always permitted to 
choose, at least nearly always, and so, as he grew older, 
his mania developed accordingly. A decision actually 
caused him physical pain, often made him definitely 
ill. He would pause interminably before two toys in a 
shop, or at any rate until his mother bought both of 
them for him. He could never decide whether to go in 
or go out, whether to play horse or to cut out pictures. 
His mother has told me that on one occasion she dis- 
covered this precocious child (at the age of twelve) in 
the library of a Toledo bibliophile (she was in the house 
as a luncheon guest) with the Sonnets of Pietro Aretino 
in one hand and Fanny Hill in the other. He could not 
make up his mind from which he would derive the most 
pleasure. In this instance, his maternal parent inter- 
vened and took both books away from him. 
Otherwise, aside from various slight illnesses, his 
childhood was singularly devoid of incident. Because 


[84] 


His Life and Works 


he hummed bits of tune while at play, his mother de- 
cided that he must be musical and sent him to an in- 
structor of the piano. The first six months were drudg- 
ery for Peter but as soon as he began to read music 
easily the skies cleared for him. He never became a 
great player but he played easily and well, much bet- 
ter than I imagined after hearing his rather bombastic 
accompaniments to Clara’s singing. Of books he was 
an omnivorous reader. He read every volume—some of 
them two or three times—in the family library, which 
included, of course, the works of Dickens, Thackeray, 
Wilkie Collins, Charles Reade, and Sir Walter Scott, 
Emerson’s Essays, Bulwer-Lytton, Owen Meredith’s 
Lucile, that long narrative poem called Nothing to 
Wear, Artemus Ward’s Panorama, Washington Irving, 
Longfellow, Whittier, Thoreau, Lowell, and Hawthorne, 
and among the moderns, Mark Twain, William Dean 
Howells, F. Hopkinson Smith, F. Marion Crawford, 
Richard Harding Davis, George W. Cable, Frank Stock- 
ton, H. C. Bunner, and Thomas Nelson Page. Peter 
once told me that his favourite books when he was 
fourteen or fifteen years old were Sarah Grand’s The 
Heavenly Twins and H. B. Fuller’s The Chevalier of 
Pensieri-Vani. The latter made a remarkable impres- 
sion on him, when he first discovered it at the age of 
fifteen, not that he fully appreciated its ironic raillery 
but it seemed to point out the pleasure to be appre- 
hended from pleasant places. He named a cat of the 


[85 | 


Peter Whiffle 


period, a regal yellow short-haired tom, after the Pro- 
rege of Arcopia. The house library exhausted, the pub- 
lic library offered further opportunities for browsing and 
it was there that he made the acquaintance of Gautier, 
in translation, of course. He also found it possible to 
procure—though not at the public library—and he de- 
voured with avidity—he has asserted that they had an 
extraordinary effect in awakening his imagination— 
Nick Carter, Bertha M. Clay, and Golden Days. For 
a period of four or five years, in spite of all protests, 
although he had never heard of the vegetarians, he sub- 
sisted entirely on a diet of cookies soaked in hot milk. 
He had a curious inherent dislike for spinach and it was 
characteristic of his father that he ordered the dish to 
appear on the table every day until the boy tasted a 
morsel. In after life, Peter could never even look at a 
dish of spinach. He cared nothing at all for outdoor 
sports. Games of any kind, card or osculatory, he con- 
sidered nuisances. At a party, while the other children 
were engaged in the pleasing pastime of post office, he 
was usually to be found in a corner, reading some book. 
The companionship of boys and girls of his own age 
meant very little to him. He like to talk to older people 
and found special pleasure in the company of the 
Reverend Horatio Wallace, a clergyman of the Dutch 
Reformed Church, who had visited New York. This 
reverend doctor was violently opposed to art museums, 
novels, and symphony orchestras, but he talked about 


[86] 


His Life and Works 


them and he was the only person Peter knew in Toledo 
who did. He railed against the sins of New York and 
the vices of Paris but, also, he described them. 

In the matter of a university education, his mother 
took a high hand, precluding all discussion and inde- 
cision by sending him willy-nilly to Williams. Her 
brother had been a Williams man and she prayed 
that Peter might like to be one too. The experiment 
was not unsuccessful. The charm in Peter’s nature be- 
gan to expand at college and he even made a few friends, 
the names of most of which he could no longer remem- 
ber when he spoke to me of his college days some years 
afterwards. He realized that the reason he had made so 
few in Toledo was that the people of Toledo were not 
his kind of people. They lived in a world which did not 
exist for him. They lived in the world of Toledo while 
he lived in the world of books. At college, he began to 
take an interest in personalities ; he began to take an 
interest in life itself. He studied French—it was the 
only course he thoroughly enjoyed—and he began to 
read Gautier in the original. Then, at the instigation 
of a particularly intelligent professor, he passed on to 
Barbey d’Aurevilly, to Huysmans, to Laforgue, and to 
Mallarmé. 

His holidays were always a torture for the boy. 
Should he accept one of several invitations to visit 
his lad friends or should he go home? One Easter va- 
cation, Monkey Rollins had asked him to visit him in 


[87] 


Peter Whiffle 


Providence while Teddy Quartermouse had bidden him 
to enjoy himself in New York. Peter pondered. He liked 


Monkey’s sisters but a week in Providence meant, he | 


knew, dancing, bridge, and golf, all of which he hated. 
Teddy was not as companionable as Monkey and he 
had no sisters, but in New York both indoor and out- 
door sports could be avoided. Peter helplessly examined 
both sides of the shield until Monkey settled the ques- 
tion by coming after him, helping him pack, and carry- 
ing him triumphantly to the railway station. 

No sooner, however, had he arrived in Providence 
than he knew that it would be impossible for him to 
remain there. He did not find Monkey’s mother very 
agreeable, rather she was too agreeable. The vegetables 
were cooked in milk—the Rollins family had previously 
lived in Missouri. This, of course, was not to be borne. 
Worst of all, there was a parrot, a great, shrieking, 
feathered beast, with koprolagniac tastes. Neverthe- 
less, he exerted himself at dinner, giving a lengthy and 
apocryphal description to Mrs. Rollins of his perform- 
ance of a concerto for kettle-drum with the college band, 
and doubtless made a distinctly favourable impression 
on the entire family. Even the parrot volunteered : Hur- 
rah for you, kid, you’re some guy! as the procession 
trooped into the library, which one of the girls referred 


to as ‘‘the carnegie,” for coffee. While Caruso negotiated — 


Celeste Aida on the phonograph, Peter, after whispering 
an appropriate excuse to Monkey, contrived to slip up- 


[88] 


His Life and Works 


stairs. He looked about on the landing in the upper hall- 
way for a telephone but, naturally, it wasn’t there. Then 
he reconnoitred and discovered that by climbing out 
over the porch and making a ten foot jump he would 
land very neatly in a bed of crocuses. This he did and, 
scrambling to his feet, made straight for a apothecary’s 
coloured lights, which he saw in the distance. The sequel 
is simple. In fifteen minutes, by way of the kitchen, he 
was back in the library ; in thirty minutes, he had the 
family in roars of laughter ; in forty-five minutes, Papa 
Rollins began to yawn and guessed it was bed-time ; 
Mama Rollins called in the maid to cover the parrot 
and arrange the fire. Monkey said he thought he would 
play a game of something or other with Peter. The girls 
giggled. In exactly an hour, there was a ring at the door 
and the maid reappeared in the library, with a yellow 
envelope addressed to Peter. He hastily tore it open, 
trying to look portentous. Everybody else did look por- 
tentous. Peter handed the telegram to Monkey, who 
read it aloud: Your mother would like to shake your 
hand before she takes the ether tomorrow morning. The 
message was dated from New York and the signature 
was that of a famous surgeon. Mrs. Rollins was the 
first to break a moment of appalling silence: There’s 
a train in fifteen minutes. It’s the last. Quick, Monkey, 
the motor ! Peter cried, Send my things to the Manhat- 
tan, as he jerked on his coat. He caught the train and 
some hours later he and Teddy Quartermouse might 


[89] 


Peter Whiffle 


have been observed amusing themselves with highballs 
and a couple of girls at Rector’s. 

In time, college days passed. Peter confessed to me 
that the last two years were an awful strain but he stuck 
them out, chiefly because he could not think of anything 
else he wanted to do. His real mental agony began with 
his release. He dreaded life and most of all he dreaded 
work. His father, although well-to-do, had a sharply 
defined notion that a boy who would not work never 
amounted to anything. His peculiar nature sometimes 
asserted itself in ludicrous and fantastically exaggerated 
demonstrations of this theory. Once, for example, dur- 
ing a summer vacation spent in the country, he insisted 
that Peter skin a pig. You have an opportunity to learn 
now and you never can tell when you may have to skin 
another pig. When the time comes you will be prepared. 
His father, Peter returned from college discovered, was 
in no mood to tolerate vacillation or dawdling. But 
Peter seemed to feel no urge of any kind. I not only 
did not want to do anything, he explained, there was 
nothing that I wanted to do. Here his father, with whom 
the boy had never been particularly sympathetic (mo- 
tive of the CEdipus complex by the flutes in the orches- 
tra), asserted his authority and put him in the bank. 
Peter loathed the bank. He hated his work, cutting open 
envelopes early in the morning, sorting out bills for col- 
lection, and then, on his bicycle, making the collections. 
In the afternoon, an endless task at the adding machine 


[90] 


His Life and Works 


seemed Dantesque and, at night, the sealing of envel- 
opes was even more tiresome than opening them in the 
morning. There was, however, one mitigating circum- 
stance in connection with the last job of the day, the 
pleasure afforded by the rich odour of the hot sealing- 
wax. His pay was $9 a week ; he has told me that proba- 
bly he was not worth it! Fortunately he lived at home 
and was not asked to pay board. He bought books with 
the $9 and “‘silly things.” When I asked him what he 
meant by silly things, he replied: Oh! Rookwood pot- 
tery, and alligators, and tulip bulbs: I don’t remember, 
things like that! One day, he promised his father that 
he would give up smoking if that one would present him 
with a gold cigarette-case | 

There came a morning when he could not make up 
his mind to get up. His mother called him several times 
in vain. He arrived at the bank half an hour late and was 
reprimanded. His father spoke about his tardiness at 
lunch. At this period he was inclined to be sulky. He 
started off on his bicycle in the afternoon but he did 
not go to the bank. He rode along by the river, stop- 
ping at a low saloon in the outlying districts, where the 
workmen of some factory were wont to congregate in 
the evening, and drank a great many glasses of beer. 
Cheered somewhat thereby, the thought of facing his 
fatherno longer exasperated him. The big scene took place 
before dinner. Had it not been for the beer, he would 
have been obliged to act his part on an empty stomach. 


[91] 


Peter Whiffle 


Are you no good at all? Thus his father’s baritone 
aria began. Are you worthless? ’m not going to sup- 


port you. Suppose you had to pay your own board. I | 


can’t keep a son of mine in the bank because he is a 
son of mine unless he does some work. Certainly not. 
How long are you going to dawdle? What are you going 
to do? Et cetera, et cetera, with a magnificent cadenza 
and a high E to top off with. Sustained by the beer, 
Peter reported to me that he rather enjoyed the tune. 
He said nothing. Dinner was eaten in complete silence 
and then the paternal parent went to bed, a discouraged 
and broken man. He seemed senescent, although he was 


not yet fifty. After dinner, Peter’s mother spoke to him | 


more gently but she also was full of warning and gloomy 
foreboding: What is it you want to do, my son?... 
I don’t know. I’m not sure that I want to do anything. 
... But you must do something. You wouldn’t be manly 
if you didn’t do something. It is manly to work. A day 
will come when my son will want to marry and then he 
will need money to support his dear wife. Etc. Ete. 
Peter reported to me that he seemed to have heard 
this music before. He had not yet read The Way of 
All Flesh ; I doubt if it were published at this time, but 
Ernest Pontifex would have been a sympathetic figure 
to him. Peter knew the meaning of the word cliché, al- 
though the sound and the spelling of it were yet strange 
to him. 

When he got to his room certain words his mother 


[92 


_ chats Jam 


His Life and Works 


had spoken rang in his ears. Why, he asked himself, 
should men support women? Art is the only attraction 
in life and women never do good work in art. They are 
useless in the world aside from their functions of sex 
and propagation. Why should they not work so that 
the males could be free to think and dream? Then it 
occurred to him that he would be furious if any woman 
supported his father ; that could not be borne, to have 
his father at home all day while his mother was away 
at work ! | 

Nevertheless, he went to sleep quite happy, he has 
assured me, and slept soundly through the night, al- 
though he dreamed of a pair of alligators, one of which 
was pulling at his head and the other at his feet, while 
a man with an ax rained blows on his stomach. In the 
morning his affairs seemed to be in a desperate state. 
He could not bear the idea of getting up and going to 
the bank and yet there was nothing else he wanted 
to do. Of one thing only he was sure: he did not want 
to support himself. He did not, so far as he was able 
to make out, want to do anything ! He wanted his family 
to stop bothering him. Was no provision made in this 
world for such as he? 

Certainly, no provision was made for him in Toledo, 
Ohio. The word temperament was still undiscovered 
there. His negative kind of desire was alien to Amert- 
can sympathy. Of so much, he was aware. Adding ma- 
chines and collections awaited him. He went to the bank 


[93] 


Peter Whiffle 


where the paying teller again reprimanded him. So did 
one of the clerks. So did one of the directors, a friend 
of his father. He staggered through another day, which 
he helped along a little by returning at noon with all 
his notes uncollected. Nobody wants to pay today, he 
explained.... But it’s your business to make them 
pay.... There was cold ham, cold slaw, and rice pud- 
ding for lunch. His mother had been crying. His father 
was stern. 5 

During the rice pudding, he made a resolution, which 
he kept. From that day on he worked as he had never 
worked before. Everybody in the bank was astonished. 
His father was delighted. His mother said, I told you 
so. I know my son.... He stopped buying books and 
silly things and, when he had saved enough money, he 
took a train to New York without bidding the bank 
officials or his family good-bye. Once there, his resolu- 
tion again failed him. He had no desires, or if he had, 
one counteracted another. His money was almost gone 
and he was forced to seek for work, but everywhere he 
went he was refused. He lived at a Mills Hotel. He re- 
tained a strange fondness for his mother and began to 
write her, asking her to address him care of general 
delivery. 

At last he secured a position at a soda fountain in a 
drug-store. He worked there about a week. One night 
the place got on his nerves to such an extent that he 
wanted to break the glasses and squirt fizz at every 


[94] 


His Life and Works 


customer. To amuse himself, therefore, he contrived to 
inject a good dose of castor oil or cantharides into every 
drink he served. The proprietor of the shop was snoopy, 
Peter told me, and after watching me out of the corner 
of his eye for some time, he gave me a good kick, which 
landed me in the middle of the street. He tossed six 
dollars, the remainder of my wages, after me. It may 
appear strange to you but I have never been happier 
in my life than I was that night with six dollars in my 
possession and the satisfactory knowledge that I would 
never see that store again. 7 

During the next three weeks, Peter did not find any 
work. I doubt if he tried to find any. He often slept in 
Madison Square or Bryant Park with a couple of news- 
papers over him and a couple under him. He tuved on 
the most meagre rations, some of which he collected in 
bread lines. He even begged at the kitchen doors of the 
large hotels and asked for money on the street. He has 
told me, however, that he was neither discouraged nor 
unhappy. He felt the most curious sense of uplift, as if 
he were suffering martyrdom, as, indeed, he was. Life 
seemed to have left him out of its accounting, to have 
made no arrangements for his nature. He had no de- 
sire to work, in fact his repugnance for work was his 
strongest feeling, and yet, it seemed, he could procure 
no money without working. He was willing, however, 
to go without the things he wanted, really to sufter, 
rather than work. I just did not want to do anything, 


[95 | 


Peter Whiffle 


he has said. It was a fixed idea. It was my greatest joy 
to talk about the social unrest, the rights of the poor, 
the wicked capitalist, and the ideas of Karl Marx, with 
the man in the street, the real man in the street, the 
man who never went anywhere else. During this period, 
he continued to write his mother what she afterwards 
described as ‘‘bright, clever letters.”” I have seen a few 
of them, full of the most astounding energy and enthu- 
siasm, and a vague philosophy of quietism. She wrote 
back, gently chiding him, letters of resignation but still 
letters of advice, breathing the hope that he might grow 
into a respected citizen of Toledo, Ohio. She did not 
understand Peter but she loved him and would have 
gone to New York to see him, had not a restraining 
hand burked her. Mr. Whiffle was determined to hold 
no more traffic with his son. He refused, indeed, to allow — 
Peter’s name to be mentioned in his presence. Toledo 
talked with intensity behind his back but Mr. Whiffle 
did not know that. Hard as he tried not to show it, he 
was disappointed : it was impossible for him to reconcile 
his idea of a son with the actuality. Mrs. Whiffle’s first 
mild suggestion that she might visit Peter was received 
with a terrible hurricane of resentment. She did not 
mention the subject again. She would have gone any- 
way if Peter had asked her to come but he never 
did. | 
Through an Italian, whom he met one day in Bryant 
Park, Peter next secured a position as a member of the 


[96] 


His Life and Works 


claque at the Opera. Every night, with instructions 
when to applaud, he received either a seat in the dress- 
circle or a general admission ticket. There was also a 
small salary attached to the office. He did not care 
about the salary but he enjoyed going to the Opera 
which he had never before attended. He heard Manon 
Lescaut, La Damnation de Faust, Tristan, Lohengrin, 
Tosca, Roméo et Juliette, and Fedora. But his favourite 
nights were the nights when Olive Fremstad sang. He 
heard her as Venus in Tannhiuser, as Selika in |’ Afri- 
caine, as Carmen, and he heard her in that unique per- 
formance of Salome on January 22, 1907. One night he 
became so interested in watching her that he forgot to 
applaud the singer who had paid the claque. His de- 
linquency was reported by one of his colleagues and 
the next evening, when he went to the bar on Seventh 
Avenue where the claque gathered to receive its orders, 
he was informed that his services would no longer be 
required. 

After another three weeks of vagrancy, he found an- 
other job, again through a park acquaintance. He has 
told me that it was the only work he ever enjoyed. He 
became a “‘professor” in a house of pretty ladies. His 
duty was to play the piano. Play us another tune, pro- 
fessor, the customers would say, as they ordered beer 
at a dollar a bottle, and Peter would play a tune. Oc- 
~ casionally one of the customers would ask him to take 
a drink and he would order a sloe gin fizz, which Alonzo, 


[97] 


Peter Whiffle 


the sick-looking waiter, a consumptive with a wife and 
five children to support, would bring in a sticky glass, 
which he deposited with his long dirty fingers on the 
ledge of the piano. Occasionally some man, waiting for 
a girl, was left alone with him, and would talk with him 
about the suspender business or the base-ball game, 
subjects which perhaps might not have interested him 
elsewhere but which glowed with an enthralling fire in 
that incongruous environment. The men preferred tunes — 
like Lucia, the current Hippodrome success from Nep- 
tune’s Daughter, or songs from The Red Mill, in which 
Montgomery and Stone were appearing at the Knicker- 
bocker, or I don’t care. This last was always demanded 
when a certain girl, who imitated Eva Tanguay, was in 
the room. But the women, when they were alone in the 
house, just before dinner in the late afternoon, or on a 
dull evening, always asked him to play Hearts and Flow- 
ers, Massenet’s Elégie, or the garden scene from Faust, 
and then they would drink whisky and cry and tell 
him lies about their innocent girlhood. There was even 
some literary conversation. One of the girls read Georges 
Ohnet and another admired the work of Harris Merton 
Lyon and talked about it. Peter found it very easy to 
remain pure. 

He received two dollars a night from the house, and, 
occasionally, tips. Out of this he managed to rent a hall 
bedroom on West Thirty-ninth Street and to pay for 
his lunches. The Madame provided him with his dinner. 


[98] 


His Life and Works 


Breakfast he never ate. He passed his mornings in bed 
and his afternoons in the park, usually with a book. 

A French girl named Blanche, whom he liked par- 
ticularly, died one night. She was taken to a funeral 
chapel the next morning. The other girls went about 
the house snivelling and most of them sent flowers to 
the chapel. Blanche’s coffin was well banked with car- 
nations and tuberoses. The Madame sent a magnifi- 
cent standing floral-piece, a cross of white roses and, on 
a ribbon, the inscription, May our darling rest 1n peace. 
Blanche wore a white lace dress and looked very beauti- 
ful and very innocent as she lay dead, Peter thought. 
Her mother came from a distant city and there was a 
priest. The two days preceding Blanche’s burial, the 
girls passed in tears and prayers and sentimental re- 
marks about how good she was. At night they worked 
as usual and Peter played the piano. It was very much 
like the Maison Tellier, he reflected. 

With Peter, change was automatic and axiomatic, but 
he might have remained in the house a very long time, 
as he has assured me that he was perfectly contented, 
but for one of those accidents that never happen in 
realistic novels but which constantly happen in life. 
Mrs. Whiffle’s brother, the graduate of Willams, erst- 
while mentioned, a quaint person, who lived at Roches- 
ter, was a rich bachelor. He was also a collector, not of 
anything special, just a collector. He collected old and- 
irons and doorknobs and knockers. He also collected 


[99 | 


Peter Whiffle 


postmarks and homespun coverlets and obsolete musi- 
cal instruments. Occasionally he even collected books 
and in this respect his taste was unique. He collected 
first editions of Ouida, J. T. Trowbridge, Horatio Alger, 
Jr., G. A. Henty, and Oliver Optic. He had complete 
sets of first editions of all these authors and, unlike 
most book collectors, he read them with a great deal of 
pleasure, He especially enjoyed Cudjo’s Cave, a novel 
he had devoured so many times that he had found it 
necessary to have the volume rebound, thus subtract- 
ing from its value if it ever comes up at an auction sale. 

This uncle had always been prejudiced against Peter’s 
father and, of late years, this prejudice had swollen 
into a first-rate aversion. Visits were never exchanged. 
He considered himself an amateur of parts and Peter’s 
father, a sordid business grub. Mrs. Whiffle, however, 
whose whole nature was conciliatory, continued to write 
long letters to her brother. Recently she had turned 
to him for sympathy and had found a well of it. Mr. 
Fotheringay was ready to sympathize with anybody 
who had fled from old man Whiffle’s tyranny. For the 
first time he began to take an interest in the boy whom 
he had never seen. His imagination fed on his sister’s 


letters until it seemed to him that this boy was the only | 


living being he had ever loved. Peter had been working 


among the daughters of joy about two months when 


Mr. Fotheringay died. When his will, made only a few 
weeks before his death, was read, it was discovered that 


[100] 


His Life and Works 


he had left his collections to Williams College with the 
proviso that they be suitably housed, kept intact, and 
called the John Alden Fotheringay Collection. Williams 

College, I believe, was unable to meet the terms of the 
bequest and, as a result, through a contingent clause, 
they were sold. Not long ago, I ran across one of 
the books in Arthur Harrington’s shop on Lexington 
Avenue in New York. It was a copy of J. T. Trow- 
bridge’s The Satin-Wood Box and it was easily identi- 
fied by Mr. Fotheringay’s bookplate, which represented 
an old man counting his gold, with the motto, In hoc 
signo vinces. After this department of the estate had 
been provided for in the will, a very considerable sum 
of money, well invested, remained. This was left to 
Peter without proviso. 

As he never expected letters from any one except his 
mother, he seldom visited the post office and this par- 
ticular communication from Mr. Fotheringay’s lawyers, 
forwarded by Mrs. Whiffle, lay in a general delivery box 
for nearly a week before he called. He answered by tele- 
graph and the next morning he received a substantial 
cheque at his hall bedroom address. The first thing he 
bought, he has told me, was a book, an extra-illustrated 
copy of Mademoiselle de Maupin, from Brentano’s in 
Union Square. Then he went to a tailor and was mea- 
sured for clothes. Next he visited Brooks Brothers, on 
Twenty-second Street and Broadway, and purchased a 
ready-made suit, a hat, shoes and stockings, shirts, and 


[101] 


Peter Whiffle 


neckties. He took a bath, shaved, had his hair cut, and, 
dressed in his new finery, embarked for the Knicker- 
bocker in a taxi. He walked into the bar under Max- 
field Parrish’s King Cole and ordered a Martini cocktail. 
Then he ate a dinner, consisting of terrapin, roast can- 
vasback, an alligator pear, and a quart or two of Pontet 
Canet. It was during the course of this dinner that it 
occurred to him, for the first time in his life, that he 
would become an author. Four days later he sailed for 
Paris 


[102] 


Chapter VI 


There is a considerable period in the life of George 
Borrow for which his biographers have been absolutely 
unable to account. To this day where Borrow spent 
those lost years is either unknown or untold. There is 
a similar period in the life of Peter Whiffle, the period 
including the years 1907-1913. In the summer of the 
former year I left him at Paris in the arms of Clara 
Barnes, so to speak, and I did not see him again until 
February, 1913. Subsequently, when I knew him bet- 
ter, I inquired about these phantom years but I never 
elicited a satisfactory reply. He answered me, to be sure, 
but his answer consisted of two words, I lived. 
| Our next meeting took place in New York, where I 
was a musical reporter on the New York Times, the 
assistant to Mr. Richard Aldrich. One night, having 
dropped Fania Marinoff at the theatre where she was 
playing, I walked south-east until I came to the Bowery. 
I strolled down that decaying thoroughfare, which has 
lost much of its ancient glory—even the thugs and the 
belles of Avenue A have deserted it—to Canal Street, 
where the Manhattan Bridge invites the East Side to 
adventure through its splendid portal, but the East Side 
ignores the invitation and stays at home. It is the upper 


[103] 


Peter Whiffle 


West Side that accepts the invitation and regiments of 
motor-cars from Riverside Drive, in continuous pro- 
cession, pass over the bridge. For a time I stood and 
watched the ugly black scarabs with their acetylene 
eyes crawl up the approach and disappear through the 
ereat arch and then, walking a few steps, I stopped 
before the Thalia Theatre, as I have stopped so many 
times, to admire the noble facade with its flight of steps 
and its tall columns, for this is one of my dream thea- 
tres. Often have I sat in the first row of the dress circle, 
which is really a circle, leaning over the balustrade, gaz- 
ing into the pit a few feet below, and imagining the 
horseshoe as it might appear were it again frequented 
by the fashion of the town. This is a theatre, in which, 
and before which, it has often amused me to fancy my- 

self a man of wealth, when my first diversion would be - 
a complete renovation—without any reconstruction or 
vandalism—of this playhouse, and the production of 
some play by Shakespeare, for to me, no other theatre 
in New York, unless it be the Academy of Music, lends 
itself so readily to a production of Shakespeare as the 
Thalja. As I write these lines, I recall that the old New 
York theatres are fast disappearing : Wallack’s is gone; 
Daly’s is no more; even Weber and Fields’s has been 
demolished. Cannot something be done to save the 
Thalia, which is much older than any of these? Can- 
not this proud auditorium be reconsecrated to the best 
in the drama? On this night I paused for a moment, 


[104] 


oS ee” aie Y 


S849 4's oe @.-— - 


Rees a 
ms * 
me 
— 


WITH THE THIRD AVENUE 


ELEVATED RAILWAY 
from a photograph by Mortimer Offner 


THE THALIA THEATRE ON THE BOWERY, 


His Life and Works 


musing before the portal, somewhat after this manner 
—for I have always found that ‘hings rather than people 
awaken any latent sentiment and sympathy in my heart 
—and then again I passed on. 


Soon I came to a tiny Chinese shop, although I en 


still several blocks above Chinatown. The window was 
stacked with curious crisp waffles or wafers in the shape 
of lotus flowers, for the religious and sexual symbolism 
of the Chinese extends even to their culinary functions, 
and a Chinaman, just inside, was dextrously transfer- 
ring the rice batter to the irons, which were placed over 
the fire, turned a few moments, and a wafer removed and 
sprinkled with dry rice powder, as Richelieu, lacking a 
blotter, sprinkled pounce on his wet signature. But the 
shop was not consecrated solely to the manufacture 
of waffles; there were tea-sets and puppy-cats, all the 
paraphernalia of a Chinese shop in New York—on the 
shelves and tables. It was the waffles, and the peanut 
cakes, however, which tempted me to enter. 

Once inside, I became aware of the presence of a 
' Chinese woman at the back of the shop, holding in her 
arms an exquisite Chinese baby, for all Chinese babies, 
with their flat porcelain faces, their straight black hair, 
and their ivory hands, are exquisite. This baby, in green- 
blue trousers fashioned of some soft silk damask, a pink 
jacket of the same material, and a head-dress prankt 
with ribbons into which ornaments of scarlet worsted 
and blue-bird feathers were twisted, was smiling silently 


[105] 


’ 


Peter Whiffle 


and gracefully waving her tiny ivory hands towards the 
face of an outcast of the streets who stood beside her 
mother. I caught the rough workman’s suit, the soiled, 
torn boots, the filthy cap, and the unkempt hair in my 
glance, which reverted to the baby. Then, as I ap- 
proached the odd group, and spoke to the mother, the 
derelict turned. | 

Carl! he ejaculated, for, of course, it was Peter. 

I was too much astonished to speak at all as I stared 
at this ragged figure without a collar or a tie, with sev- 
eral days’ growth of beard on his usually glabrous cheeks, 
and dirty finger-nails. I had only wit enough left to 
shake his hand. At this time I knew nothing of his 
early life, nothing of the fortune he had inherited, and 
the man in front of me, save for something curiously 
inconsistent in the expression of the face, was a tramp. 
Certainly the face was puzzling: it positively exuded 
happiness. Perhaps, I thought, it was because he was 
elad to see me. I was glad to see him, even in this 
guise. 

Carl, he repeated, dear old Carl ! How silly of me not 
to remember that you would be in New York. He caught 
my glance. Somewhat of a change, eh? No more ruffles 
and frills. That life, and everything connected with it, 
is finished. Luckily, you’ve caught me near home. Come 
with me ; there’s liquor there. 

So we walked out. I had not yet spoken a word. I 
was choking with an emotion I usually reserve for old 


[106] 


Flts Life and Works 


theatres, but Peter did not appear to be aware of it. 
He chattered on gaily. 

Have you been to Paris recently? Where have you 
been? What have you been doing? Are you writing? 
Isn't New York lovely ? Don’t you think Chinese babies 
are the kind to have, if you are going to become a 
father at all? Wasn’t that an adorable one? He waited 
for no answers. Look at the lights on the bridge. I live 
in the shadow of the span. I think I live somewhere 
near the old Five Points that used to turn up in all the 
old melodramas ; you know, The Streets of New York. 
It's a wonderful neighbourhood. Everybody, absolutely 
everybody, is interesting. There’s nobody you can’t talk 
to, and very few that can’t talk. They all have some- 
thing to say. They are all either disappointed and dis- 
couraged or hopeful. They all have emotions and they 
are not afraid to show them. They all talk about the 
REVOLUTION. It may come this winter. No, I don’t 
mean the Russian revolution. Nobody expects a revolu- 
tion in Russia. Nobody down here is interested in Rus- 
_ sia; the Russian Jews especially are not. They have 
forgotten Russia. I mean the American REVOLUTION. 
The Second American REVOLUTION, I suppose it 
will be called. Labour against Capital. The Workman 
against the Leisure Class. The Proletariat against the 
Idler. Did you ever hear of Piet Vlag? Do you read 
The Masses? I go to meetings, union meetings, Socialist 
meetings, I. W. W. meetings, Syndicalist meetings, An- 


[107] 


Peter Whiffle 


archist meetings. I egg them on. It may come this winter, 
I tell you! There will be barricades on Fifth Avenue. 
Vanderbilt and Rockefeller will be besieged in their 
houses with the windows shuttered and the doors barred 
and the butler standing guard with a machine-gun at 
some gazebo or turret. It will be a real siege, lasting, 
perhaps, months. How long will the food hold out? In 
the end, they’ ll have to eat the canary and the Pekinese, 
and, no, not the cat, I hope. The cat will be clever and 
escape, go over to the enemy where he can get his meals. 
But boots, boot soup! Just like the siege of Paris ; each 
robber baron locked up in his stronghold. Sometimes, 
the housemaid will desert; sometimes, the cook. The 
millionaires will be obliged to make their own beds and 
cook their own dogs and, at last, to man their own 
machine-guns | 

The mob will be barricaded, too, behind barriers hast- 
ily thrown up in the street, formed of old moving-vans, 
Rolls-Royces and Steinway grands, covered with Gobe- 
lin tapestries and Lilihan, Mosul, Sarouk, and Khoras- 
san rugs, the spoils of the denuded houses. With a red 
handkerchief bound around my brow, I shall wavea red — 
flag and shriek on the top of such a barricade. My face 
will be streaked with blood. We shall all yell and if we 
don’t sing the Ca Ira and the Carmagnole, we shall at 
least sing Alexander’s Ragtime Band and My Wife's 
Gone to the Country. 

Eventually, Fifth Avenue will fall and the Astors and 


[108] 


Hs Life and Works 


the Goulds will be brought before the Tribunal of the 
People, and if you know any better spot for a guillotine 
than the very square in which we stood just now, in 
that vast open space before the Manhattan Bridge, over 
which they all drive off for Long Island, I wish you’d 
tell me. There are those who would like to see the killing 
done in Washington or Madison Square, or the Plaza or 
Columbus Circle, which, of course, has a sentimental 
interest for the Italians, but think of the joy it would 
give the East Side mothers, suckling their babies, and 
the pushcart vendors, and all the others who never find 
time to go up town, to have the show right here. Right 
here it shall be, if I have my way, and just now I have 
a good deal of influence. 

We had stopped before one of those charming old brick 
houses with marble steps and ancient hand-wrought 
iron railings which still remain on East Broadway to 
remind us of the day when stately landaus drove up to 
deposit crinolined ladies before their portals. We as- 
cended the steps and Peter opened the door with his 
key. The hallway was dark but Peter struck matches 
to light us up the stairs and we only ceased climbing 
when we reached the top landing. He unlocked another 
door which opened on a spacious chamber, a lovely old 
room with a chaste marble fire-place in the Dorian 
mode, and faded wall-paper of rose and grey, depict- 
ing Victorian Greek females, taller than the damsels 
drawn by Du Maurier and C. D. Gibson, languishing 


[109] 


Peter Whiffle 


in the shadows of broken columns and weeping willow 
trees. Upon this paper were fastened with pins a number 
of covers from radical periodicals, native and foreign, 
some in vivid colours, the cover of The Masses for 
March, 1912, Charles A. Winter’s Enlightenment ver- 
sus Violence, the handsome head of a workman, his 
right hand bearing a torch, printed in green, several car- 
toons by Art Young, usually representing the rich man as 
an octopus or hog, and posters announcing meetings of 
various radical groups. Gigantic letters, cut from sheets 
of newspaper, formed the legend, I. W. W., over the door. 

The room was almost devoid of furniture. There was 
an iron bed, with tossed bed-clothing, a table on which 
lay a few books, including, I noted, one by Karl Marx, 
another by English Walling, Frank Harris’s The Bomb, 
together with a number of copies of Piet Vlag’s new 
journal, The Masses, and Jack Marinoff’s Yiddish comic 
weekly, The Big Stick. There was also a pail on the 
table, such a pail as that in which a workman carries 
his mid-day meal. There were exactly two chairs and 
a wardrobe of polished oak in the best Grand Rapids 
manner stood in one corner. All this was sufficiently 
bewildering but I must confess that the appearance of 
the lovely head of a Persian cat, issuing from under the 
bed-covers, made me doubt my reason. I recognized 
George Moore. Presently I made out another puss, sit- 
ting beside a basket full of kittens in the corner near 
the wardrobe. 7 


[110] 


OLD DOORWAY ON EAST BROADWAY 
from a photograph by Mortimer Offner 


amon ee ee 


His Life and Works 


I must introduce you, explained Peter, to the mother 
of George Moore’s progeny. This is George Sand. 

By this time I was a fit subject for the asylum. Even 
the Persian cats did not set me right. Happy or not, the 
man was evidently poor. | 

I suppose I would insult you if I offered you a job, I 
stuttered at last. 

A job! Carl, don’t you know that I simply will not 
work ? 

Well, and I found this even more difficult than my 


first proposal, I hope you won’t misunderstand... . I 
haven’t much .. . but you must permit me to give vou 
some money. 

Money ! What for? 


Why, for you.... 

Comprehending at last, Peter threw back his head 
and began to laugh. 

But I don’t need money... I never had so little use 
for it. Do you realize what it costs me to live here? 
About $15 a week. That includes every item, even fresh 
beef for my cats. I was about to tell you, if you had 
given me time—you always interrupt—that I simply 
don’t know what to do with my money. Stocks have 
gone up. The labourers in the factories at Little Falls 
are working overtime to make me more prosperous. In- 
deed, one of the reasons I was so glad to see you was 
that I thought, perhaps, you could help me to spend 
some money. 


[111] 


Peter Whiffle 


The line about the interruptions, I should explain, 
was simply a fabrication of Peter’s. If I have set our 
conversations down as monologues on his part, that is 
just how they occurred. Aside from Philip Moeller and 
Arnold Daly, I have never known any one to talk so 
much, and my réle with Peter, as with them, was that 
of listener. To continue, I should have known enough, 
even so early in our acquaintance, not to be astonished 
by anything he might do, but if there had been a mirror 
in the room, which there was not, I fancy I might have 
looked into the most exasperatingly astonished face I 
had ever seen up to that time. I managed, however, to 
laugh. Peter laughed, too, and sat down. George Moore 
leaped to his knee and George Sand to his shoulder, 
rubbing her magnificent orange brush across his face. 

And how about your book? I asked. 

It’s coming .. . coming fast. 

Are you still collecting notes? 

Notes? ... Oh, you are remembering what I was do- 
ing in Paris. That was only an experiment. . . . | was on 
the wrong track. ... I threw them all away! I couldn't 
do anything with that. . . . I’m done with such nonsense. 

I couldn’t be astonished any more. 

What are you doing now? 

I’ve told you. I’m Living. Oh, I’m full of it: I know 
what art is now; I know what real literature is. It has 
nothing to do with style or form or manner. George 
Moore, not my cat but the other one, has said that 


[112] 


His Life and Works 


Christianity is not a stranger religion than the cult of 
the inevitable word. The matter is what counts. I think 
it was Theodore Dreiser.... | 

Here I did interrupt : 

I know him. When I first came to New York in 1906 
I wrote a paper about Richard Strauss’s Salome for the 
Broadway Magazine. He was the editor. 

You know Theodore Dreiser ! 

There was awe in his tone. 

Very slightly. I saw something of him then. Princi- 
pally, I remember his habit, when he was talking, of 
folding his handkerchief into small squares, then un- 
folding it. He repeated this process indefinitely. 

Show me. 

I showed him. 

Well, I’m glad I met you tonight. ... It was Sister 
Carrie that set me right; at least I think it was Sister 
Carrie. What a book ! What a masterpiece ! No style, no 
form, just subject. The devils flogged St. Jerome in the 
fifth century because he was rather a Ciceronian than a 
Christian in his beautiful writing, but they never will 
flog Theodore Dreiser! He had an idea, he knew life, 
and he just wrote what he felt. He wasn’t thinking of 
how to write it; he had something to write. Have you 
read Sister Carrie? 

I explained that Edna Kenton had given me the book 
to read when it first appeared. , 

Strange as it may appear to you, for my way is not, 


[113] 


Peter Whiffle 


perhaps, Dreiser’s, that book explains why I am here 
and why I dress in this manner. It explains why I wan- 
der about the streets and talk with the people. It ex- 
plains why I am hoping for the REVOLUTION (Peter 
on this occasion invariably pronounced this word in 
capitals). It explains why I am an I. W. W. I would 
even join the Elks, if necessary. I think Dreiser at one 
time must have been an Elk ; else how could he describe 
Hurstwood so perfectly ? 

It is amusing, however, that you who won’t work 
should become an international worker ! 

I dare say it is, drawled Peter, stroking George 
Moore’s back, as the superb cat lay purring on his 
knee. I dare say it is but I’d go a good deal farther 
to get what I want; I’d even seek employment in a de- 
partment store or a Chinese laundry. However, it’s com- 
ing without that, it’s coming fast. I found my heroine 
the other day, a little Jewish girl, who works in a sweat- 
shop. She has one blue eye and one black one. She has a 
club-foot, a hare-lip, and she is a hunch-back. I nearly 
cried for joy when I discovered her. I met her on Riv- 
ington Street walking with a stack of men’s overcoats 
three feet high poised on her head. She was limping 
under her burden. I followed her to the shop and made 
some inquiries. Her name is Rosie Levenstein. I shall 
leave in the deformities, but I shall change her name. 

Isn’t she just a trifle unpleasant, a little unsympa- 
thetic, for a heroine? 


[114] 


His Life and Works 


My book, replied Peter, is going to be very unpleas- 
ant. It is about life and because you and I enjoy life is 
little enough reason for us to consider it other than a 
dirty business. Life for the average person, for Rosie, 
for instance, simply will not do. It’s bloody awful and, 
if anything, I shall make it worse than it is. Now, if the 
comrades succeed in starting the REVOLUTION, I am 
going through with it, straight through, breaking into 
drawing-rooms with the others. I’m going to pound up 
a Steinway grand with a hammer. Here Peter, with a 
suitable gesture, brought his hand down rather heavily 
on George Moore’s head and that one, indignant, im- 
mediately rose and jumped down from his lap, subse- 
quently stretched himself on the floor, catching his 
claws in the carpet, and after yawning once or twice, 
retreated under the bed. George Sand now left Peter’s 
‘shoulder to fill the vacant place on his knee. As I told 
you, I’m going to wear a red handkerchief round my 
brow and my face will be bloody. Then, all I have to 
do is to transfer the whole experience, everything J have 
done and felt, the thrill, the BOOM, to Rosie. Can’t you 
see the picture in my last chapter of the little, lame, 
hare-lipped hunch-back, with one blue eye and one 
black one, marching up Fifth Avenue with the com- 
rades, wrapped in the red flag, her face stained with 
blood, humbling the Guggenheimers and the Morgans, 
disturbing the sleep of Henry Clay Frick, casting art 
treasures, bought with the blood of the poor, out to the 


[115] 


Peter Whiffle 


pavement, breaking windows, shooting, torturing, de- 
vastating? Then the triumphant return to the East 
Side, Rosie on the men’s shoulders. Everybody tired 
and sweaty, satiated and bloody. Now, all the realism 
of the interiors, gefillte fish and schnaps. But Rosie will 
sit down to her dinner in a Bendel evening gown, raped — 
from one of the Kahn closets. The men come back for 
her. Another procession down Canal Street. The po- 
lice charge the mob. Shots. The Vanderbilts and the As- 
tors and the Schwabs in their Rolls-Royces and their 
Pierce-Arrows, fitted with machine-guns, charge the 
mob. Terrible slaughter. Rosie dead, a horrid mess, 
fully described, lying on the pavement. Everything 
lost. Everything worse than it was before. Deporta- 
tion. Exile. Tenements razed. Old women, their shei- 
tels awry, wrapped in half a dozen petticoats and thick 
shawls, bearing the sacred candlesticks, fleeing in all di- 
rections. Cries of Weh is mir! Moans. Groans. Desola- 
tion. And, at the end, a lone figure standing just where 
you and I were standing a little while ago, philosophiz- 
ing, pointing the dread moral, accenting the horror. The 
lights go out. Darkness. In the distance, a band is heard 
playing The Star Spangled Banner. Finis. 

Peter’s excitement became so great that he almost 
shrieked ; he waved his arms and he half rose out of 
his chair. George Sand, too, found it expedient to re- 
treat under the bed. The kittens, tumbling mewing out 
of their basket, their little tails, like Christmas trees, 


[116] 


His Life and Works 


straight in the air, followed her, and soon were push- 
ing their paws valiantly against her belly and drinking 
greedily from her dugs. 

It’s wonderful, I said when Peter, at last, was silent. 
Then, as it seemed, rather inconsequentially. Do you 
know Edith Dale? 

Who is Edith Dale? 

Well, she’s a woman, but a new kind of woman, or 
else the oldest kind; I’m not sure which. I’m going to 
take you there. Bill Haywood goes there. So does Doris 
Keane. Everybody goes there. Everything is all mixed 
up. Everybody talks his own kind of talk and Edith, 
inscrutable Edith, sits back and listens. You can listen 
too. 

Is she writing a book? 

No, she never does anything like that. She spends 
her energy in living, in watching other people live, in 
watching them make their silly mistakes, in helping 
them make their silly mistakes. She is a dynamo. She 
will give you a good deal. At least, these gatherings will 
give you a good deal. I think you might carry a chap- 
ter or two of your novel through one of Edith Dale’s 
evenings. 

Must I change my clothes? 

No, you are right just as you are. She will like you 
the better for them. 

That’s good. I couldn’t change my clothes. My 
friends, the comrades, wouldn’t understand if they 


[117] 


Peter Whiffle 


saw me. But you must have a drink. I had nearly 
forgotten that I had promised you one. 

Peter opened the polished oak wardrobe and ex- 
tracted therefrom a bottle of Christopher’s Finest Old 
White Scotch Whisky and he began to speak of the ad- 
vantage of allowing spirits to retain their natural colour, 
which rarely happens in the case of whisky, although 
gin is ordinarily to be distinguished in this manner. 


[118] 


Chapter VII 


Edith Dale had returned to New York after three 
years in Florence. Near the old renaissance city she 
had purchased an ancient villa in the mountains and 
had occupied herself during her sojourn there in trans- 
forming it into a perfect environment for the amusing 
people with whom she surrounded herself. The villa 
originally had been built without a loggia; this was 
added, together with a salone in the general style of 
the old house. The lovely Italian garden was restored. 
Cypresses pointed their dark green cones towards the 
sky and gardenias bloomed. White peacocks and statues 
were imported. Then, with her superlatively excellent 
taste at her elbow, Edith rushed about Italy in her 
motor, ravishing prie-Dieu, old pictures, fans, china 
dogs, tapestries, majolica, and Capo di Monte porce- 
lains, carved and gilded renaissance boxes, fantastic 
Venetian glass girandoles, refectory tables, divans, and 
divers bibelots, until the villa became a perfect expres- 
sion of her mood. When every possible accent had been 
added, she entertained in the evening. Eleanora Duse, 
a mournful figure in black velvet, stood on the loggia 
and gazed out over the hills towards Certosa ; Gordon 
Craig postured in the salone ; and Gertrude Stein com- 


[119] 


Peter Whiffle 


memorated the occasion in a pamphlet, printed and 
bound in a Florentine floral wall-paper, which today 
fetches a good sum in old bookshops, when it can be 
found at all. To those present at this festa, it seemed, 
doubtless, like the inauguration of the reign of another 


Lorenzo the Magnificent. There was, indeed, the pros- — 


pect that Ease and Grace, Beauty, Wit, and Knowl- 
edge, would stroll through these stately and ornate 


chambers for indefinite months, while hungry artists 


were being fed in the dining-room. But to Edith, this 


culminating dreary festivity was the end. She had deco- — 


rated her villa with its last china dog, and the greatest 
actress in the world was standing on her loggia. Under 
the circumstances, further progress in this direction 
seemed impossible. She was even somewhat chagrined 
to recall that it had taken her three years to accomplish 
these things and she resolved to move more quickly in 
the future. So, packing enough of her treasures to furnish 
an apartment in New York, she shut the villa door with- 
out looking behind her, and booked a passage on the 
next boat sailing from Genoa. 

In New York she found the top floor of an old man- 
sion in Washington Square exactly what she wanted 
and installed green glass, lovely fabrics, and old Italian 
furniture against the ivory-white of the walls and the 
hangings. She accomplished the setting in a week ; now 
she required the further decoration which the human 


element would afford. Art, for the moment, was her — 


[120] 


a: GERTRUDE STEIN 
from the painting by Pablo Picasso 


Hts Life and Works 


preoccupation and, with her tremendous energy and 
her rare sagacity and taste, she set about, quite spon- 
taneously, arranging for an exhibition, the first great 
exhibition of the post-impressionist and cubist painters 
in New York. This show has now become almost a 
legend but it was the reality of that winter. It was the 
first, and possibly the last, exhibition of paintings held 
in New York which everybody attended. Everybody 
went and everybody talked about it. Street-car conduc- 
tors asked for your opinion of the Nude Descending a 
Staircase, as they asked you for your nickel. Elevator 
boys grinned about Matisse’s Le Madras Rouge, Pica- 
bia’s La Danse a la Source, and Brancusi’s Mademoi- 
selle Pogany, as they lifted you to the twenty-third 
floor. Ladies you met at dinner found Archipenko’s 
sculpture very amusing, but was it art? Alfred Stieglitz, 
whose 291 Gallery had nourished similar ideas for years, 
spouted like a geyser for three weeks and then, after 
a proper interval, like Old Faithful, began again. Ac- 
tresses began to prefer Odilon Redon to Raphael Kirch- 
ner. To sum up, the show was a bang-up whale of a 
success, quite overshadowing .the coeval appearance of 
the Irish Players, chaperoned by Lady Gregory. It was 
cartooned, it was caricatured, 1t was Dr. Frank Craned. 
Scenes in the current revues at the theatres were de- 
voted to it ; it was even mentioned in a burlesque at the 
Columbia. John Wanamaker advertised cubist gowns 
and ladies began to wear green, blue, and violet 


[121] 


Peter Whiffle — 


wigs, and to paint their faces emerald and purple. The 


effects of this «esthetic saturnalia are manifest even 
today. 

Fresh from the quieter insanity of Florence, Edith 
was intensely amused by all this. It seemed so extraor- 
dinarily droll to find the great public awake to the ex- 
citement of art. She surrounded herself with as many 
storm centres as possible. The crowds flocked to her 
place and she made them comfortable. Pinchbottles and 
Curtis Cigarettes, poured by the hundreds from their 
neat pine boxes into white bowls, trays of Virginia ham 
and white Gorgonzola sandwiches, pale Italian boys in 
aprons, and a Knabe piano were added to the decora- 
tions. Arthur Lee and Lee Simonson, Marsden Hartley, 
Andrew Dasburg, Max Weber, Charles Demuth, Bobby 
Jones—just out of college and not yet a designer of 
scenery—Bobby ‘Parker, all the jeunes were con- 
fronted with dowagers from the upper East Side, old 
family friends, Hutchins Hapgood, Ridgely Torrence, 
Edwin Arlington Robinson, and pretty women. Argu- 
ments and discussions floated in the air, were caught 
and twisted and hauled and tied, until the white salon 
itself was no longer static. There were undercurrents of 
emotion and sex. 

Edith was the focus of the group, grasping this faint 
idea or that frail theory, tossing it back a complete or 
wrecked formula, or she sat quietly with her hands 
folded, like a Madonna who had lived long enough to 


[122] 


, Soa iss eis 
Late ee 


MARCEL DUCHAMP’S NUDE DESCENDING A STAIRCASE 


from the collection of Walter Conrad Arensberg; photograph 
by Charles Sheeler 


His Life and Works 


learn to listen. Sometimes she was not even at home, 
for the drawing-room was generally occupied from ten 
in the morning until midnight. Sometimes—very often, 
indeed—she left her guests without a sign and went to 
bed. Sometimes—and this happened still oftener—she 
remained in the room without being present. Andrew 
Dasburg commemorated this aspect in a painting which 
he called The Absence of Edith Dale. But always, and 
Dasburg suggested this in his flame-like portrait, her 
electric energy presided. She was the amalgam which 
held the incongruous group together ; she was the alem- 
bic that turned the dross to gold. 

When dulness, beating its tiresome wings, seemed 
about to hover over the group, she had a habit of 
introducing new elements into the discussion, or new 
- figures into the group itself, and one day it must have 
occurred to her that, if people could become so excited 
about art, they might be persuaded to become excited 
about themselves too, and so she transferred her inter- 
est to the labouring man, to unions, to strikes, to the 
I. W. W. I remember the first time I saw her talking 
earnestly with a rough member of the garment-maker’s 
union. Two days later, Bill Haywood, himself, came in 
and the tremendous presence of the one-eyed giant filled 
the room, seeming to give it a new consecration. Débu- 
tantes knelt on the floor beside him, while he talked 
simply, but with an enthralling intensity, about the 
things that interested him, reinforcing his points by 


[123] 


Peter Whiffle 


crushing the heels of his huge boots into the Shirvan 
rug or digging his great hands into the mauve tapestry 
with which the divan was upholstered. Miners, garment- 
makers, and silk-weavers were the honoured guests in 
those days. The artists still came but the centre of in- 
terest had shifted. Almost half of every day Edith now 
spent in Paterson, New Jersey, where the strike of the 
hour was going on, attending union meetings and help- 
ing to carry pickets back and forth in her motor. She 
continued to be diverted by the ironies and complexities 
of life. 

Recruits to the circle arrived from Europe—for Edith 
knew half of Europe—solemn celebrities, tramps, up- 
per Fifth Avenue, Gramercy Park, Greenwich Village, 
a few actresses—I took Fania Marinoff there several 
times—were all mixed up with green glass vases, filled 
with fragrant white lilies, salmon snapdragons, and blue 
larkspurs, pinchbottles, cigarette stubs, Lincoln Steffens, 
and the paintings of Marsden Hartley and Arthur B. 
Davies. Over the whole floated the anomalous odours 
of Eau de Lavande Ambrée and Bull Durham. 

Edith herself was young—about thirty-four—and 
comely, with a face that could express anything or 
nothing more easily than any face I have ever seen. It 
was a perfect mask. She wore lovely gowns of clinging 
turquoise blue, spinel, and jacinth silks from Liberty’s. 
When she went out she wrapped herself in more soft 
silks of contrasting shades, and donned such a hat 


[124] 


= a i 
eee nee ee ee 


j 
: 


Hts Life and Works © 


as Donatello’s David wears, graceful with its waving 
plumes and an avalanche of drooping veils. 

I spent whole days at Edith’s and was nearly as 
much amused as she. To be truthful, I dare say I was 
more amused, because she tired of it before I did. But 
before these days were over I brought in Peter. I had 
telephoned Edith that we were coming for dinner and, 
when we arrived, the rooms were nearly empty, for she 
found it as easy to rid herself of people as to gather 
them in. Neith Boyce was there, I remember, her lovely 
red hair caught in a low knot and her lithe body swathed 
in a deep blue brocade. There were two young men 
whose names I never knew, for Edith never introduced 
anybody and these young men did not interest me suffi- 
ciently to compel me to converse with them and they 
interested Edith so little that they were never allowed 
to appear again. The dinner, as always, was simple: a 
soup, roast beef and browned potatoes, peas, a salad of 
broccoli, a loaf of Italian bread, pats of sweet butter, 
and cheese and coffee. Bottles of whisky, red and white 
wine, and beer stood at intervals along the unclothed 
refectory table. The cynical Tuscan butler, who had 
once been in the service of Lady Paget, never inter- 
rupted the meals to serve these. You poured out what 
you wanted when you wanted it. The dinner was dull. 
The young men tried to make an impression on Edith 
with a succession of witty remarks of the sort which 
would have made them exceedingly popular in any-— 


[125] 


Peter Whiffle 


thing like what Ward McAllister describes as Society — 
as I Have Found It, but it was apparent that their 
hostess was unaware of their very existence. Neith and 
I exchanged a few inconsequential phrases concerning 
D. H. Lawrence’s Sons and Lovers. Peter, dressed as 
he had been when I met him in the Chinese shop, and 
even dirtier, was utterly silent. Long before coffee was 
served, Edith left the table and went into the salon to 
write letters. 

When we followed her later, there were already a few 
people there, talking in corners, and more were arriving. 
Now and again, Edith glanced up from her letters to 
greet one of the newcomers but she did not rise. Peter 
wandered about the room, looking at the pictures, oc- 
casionally picking up a book, of which there were a 
great number lying about on the tables. Donald Evans, 
correct and rather portentous in his studied dignity, 
made an early appearance. At this period he was in- 
volved in the composition of the Sonnets from the Pata- 
gonian. He drew a manuscript from his pocket and laid 
it on the desk before Edith. Over her shoulder I read 
the line, 

She triumphed in the tragic turnip field. 
Hutchins Hapgood, haggard and restless and yet 
strangely sympathetic, came in and joined uneasily 
in an eager conversation with a young woman with 
bobbed hair who stood in a corner, fingering an Afri- 
can primitive carving in wood of a naked woman 


[126] 


DONALD EVANS 


His Life and Works 


with long pointed breasts. Yorska was there, the ex- 
otic Yorska with her long nose, her tragic eyes, her 
mouth like a crimson slit in a face as white as Pierrot’s, 
a modern Judith looking for a modern Holofernes and 
never finding him; Jo Davidson with his jovial black 
beard, Bacchus or satyr in evening clothes ; Edna Ken- 
ton, in a pale green floating tunic of her own design ; 
Max Eastman, poet and Socialist, and his wife, Ida 
Rauh; Helen Westley, a tall angular scrag with some- 
_ thing of the aristocracy of the Remsen-Meseroles in- 
forming her spine, who had acquired a considerable 
reputation for being “‘paintable” by never paying the 
slightest attention to her clothes; Henrietta Rodman, 
the round-faced, cherubic Max Weber. ... I caught all 
these and, quite suddenly, although for some time, I 
remembered afterward, I had been aware of the odour 
of Coeur de Jeannette, Clara Barnes. She was sitting, 
when I discovered her, on a sofa before the fire-place, 
in which the coals were glowing. She was more matronly 
in figure and was dressed with some attempt at styliza- 
tion. She was wearing a robe of batik, iridescent in the 
shades of the black opal, with a belt of moonstones set 
in copper, and huge earrings fashioned of human hair. 
On her feet were copper-coloured sandals and I was 
pleased to note that her dress was long enough to cover 
her ankles. I leaned over the back of the sofa and ad- 
dressed her. } 


Miss Barnes, I believe... 


[127] 


Peter Whiffle 


She turned. 

Oh, it’s you. What a long time it’s been since Paris. 

I perceived that her new manner was not exclusively 
a matter of clothes. 

Peter is here tonight, I hazarded. 

Is he? she parried, without any apparent interest. 

What are you doing now? 

What I have always been doing, studying is opera. 
That teacher in Paris nearly ruined my voice. I am 
really, it seems, a contralto, and that fool had me 
studying Manon. Carmen is to be my great role. I 
have a splendid teacher now and I am working hard. 
In two or three more years, I should be ready for my 
début. I want to get into the Metropolitan. ... You, I 
hear, are with the Times. Perhaps you can help me... 

So she rambled on. I had heard everything she had 
to say many times before and I have heard it many 
times since; I found it hard to listen. Looking across 
the room, I saw Peter gazing at us. So he knew she 
was there, but he only smiled and turned back his at- 
tention to the book he held in his hand. Clara, however, 
had caught his eye. Her face became hard and bitter, 

He might speak to me, she said and there was a tone 
of defiance in her voice. Then, more calmly, I never 
understood Peter; I don’t understand him now. For 
three days, a week, perhaps, I thought he loved me. One 
day he disappeared, without any explanation ; nothing, 
not a sign, not a word. I knew that he had left Paris, 


[128] 


q 


His Life and Works 


because he had taken the cat with him. I was not very 
much in love with him and so it didn’t hurt, at least it 
didn’t hurt deeply, but what do you make of a man 
like that? 

He contradicts himself, I put in rather lamely, search- 
ing for words. 

That’s it! He contradicts himself. Why, do you know, 
I don’t believe he cared at all for my singing. After the 
day I sang for you, he never asked me to sing again and 
when I offered to he always put me off. 

An old lady in a black satin dress, trimmed with 
cataracts of jet beads, addressed me and fortunately 
drew me out of Clara’s orbit. 

Mrs. Dale has some remarkable pictures of the new 
school, she began, but, of course, I don’t like them. 
Now, if you want to see pictures—I hadn’t said that I 
did—you should go to Henry Frick’s. Do you know 
Mr. Frick? 

No, but I know the man who shot him. 

The old lady grew almost apoplectic and the jet beads 
jangled like /Zolian harps in a heavy wind. She man- 
aged, however, to gasp out with a sound that was re- 
markably like gurgling, Oh, indeed! How interesting! 
Then, peering about nervously, I don’t suppose he’s 
here tonight. 

I haven’t seen him, I said, but he often comes here 
and, as I see Emma Goldman yonder, I should think 
it extremely likely that he will appear later. 


[129] 


Peter Whiffle 


Oh, indeed ! The old lady leitmotived once more, How 
interesting ! How very interesting ! Would you mind tell- 
ing me the time? 

It’s a quarter of ten. 

Oh, as late as that !—She had just arrived. Really, I 
had no idea it was so late. John—this to a decrepit old 
gentleman in shiny evening clothes—John, it’s a quar- 
ter to ten. 

What of it? querulously demanded the old gentle- 
man, with a curious upward turn to his ridiculous side- 
whiskers. What of it? | 

The old lady, forgetting her fifty years of training 
in the most exclusive drawing-rooms, turned and whis- 
pered something in his ear. 

Now it was the turn of the old gentleman to feel a 
touch of apoplexy. 

Berkman! he roared, Berkman! Where is the scoun- 
drel? Where is the assassin? ; 

The old lady looked almost shame-faced as she 
tried to pacify John: He’s not here yet, but he may 
come. 

We shall leave at once, announced the old gentlemen 
decisively. Edith is trespassing on our good nature. She 
is going too far. We shall leave at once. 

He offered the old lady his arm and they made their 
way rapidly out, rubbing against, in the passageway, a 
one-eyed man nearly seven feet tall. Now Edith had 
neither observed the coming or the going of this any : 


[130] 


Hts Life and Works 


couple but Bill Haywood had not crossed the threshold 
before she was shaking his hand and, a moment later, 
she had drawn him with her through a doorway into a 
little room at one side of the salon, where she could talk 
to him more privately. 

The most fascinating man alive, volunteered a stran- 
ger at my elbow, a little fellow with a few wisps of yel- 
low hair and a face like a pug-dog, that Bill Haywood. 
No show about him, nothing theatrical, not a bit like 
the usual labour leader. Genuine power, that’s what he 
has. He never goes in for melodrama, not even at a 
strike meeting. The other day in Paterson, a child was 
hurt while the police were clearing the street of strikers. 
One of the policemen, with his billy, struck down the 
boy’s mother and a man who was helping her to her 
feet. At the meeting the next day, Haywood recited 
the facts, just the bare facts, without comment or colour 
and without raising his voice. What’s the policeman’s 
name? cried a voice in the hall. His name, replied Hay- 
wood, as coldly as possible, is said to be Edward Duffy ; 
his number is 72. That was all, but Edward Duffy, 
No 72, had been consigned to the perpetual hatred of 
every one of the two thousand men present at the meet- 
ing. He spurns eloquence and soap-box platitudes. He 
never gibbers about the brotherhood of man, the so- 
cialist commonwealth rising upon the ruins of the capi- 
talist system, death to the exploiters, and all the other 
clichés of the ordinary labour agitator. Workers want 


[131] 


Peter Whiffle 


simple, homely facts regarding their trades and he gives 
them these facts. He is— 

What are all these God damn bourgeois doing here? 
demanded a high, shrill voice from the next room. 

My companion smiled. That is Hippolyte Havel. He 
always asks that question, even at anarchist meetings, 
but it isn’t a cliché with him; it’s part of his charm. 


Hippolyte, sweet, blinking, amblyoptic Hippolyte, 


his hair as snarly as the Medusa’s, strode into the room. 

Hush, some one adjured us, Hush! Yorska is going to 
recite. 

After a few seconds, there was silence. All the chairs 
were filled; many were sitting on the floor or standing 
against the wall or in the doorways; ladies in black 
velvet, wearing diamonds, ladies in batik and Green- 
wich Village sacks, ladies with bobbed hair and mannish- 
cut garments, men in evening dress, men in workmen’s 
clothes. No one present, I noted, looked quite so untidy 
as Peter. Yorska, her tragic face emerging from three 
yards of black tulle and satin, recited, in F rench, Baude- 
laire’s Le Balcon, fingering a red rose at her waist. As 
she uttered the last lines with passionate intensity, 


—O serments! O parfums! O baisers infinis! 


there was a scattered clapping of hands, a few exclama- 
tions of delight. Now the Tuscan butler, as cynical as 
Herbert Spencer, threw open the doors to the dining- 
room, exposing the table laden with sandwiches, salads, 


[132] 


ae 
ne i ae 


Hts Life and Works 


cold meats, glasses, and bottles, including kiimmel bot- 
tles in the form of Russian bears. A few of the young 
radicals were the first to surge to the repast. My com- 
panion and I slipped out in time to hear an instructive 
lecture on the subject of collective bargaining from a 
young man with a black flowing tie, who grasped a’ 
pinchbottle so fervidly that I felt sure it would never 
leave his hand until he had usurped the contents. Repre- 
sentation was a word which, in its different senses, was 
often used that evening. The labourers cooed over it, 
worshipped it, and set it up in a shrine, while the artists 
spurned it and cast it from them ; ‘“‘mere photography”’ 
was the phrase. 

Helen Westley, black and limp, stood beside me. 

Who, she asked, is that young man you brought here 
tonight? 

Peter Whiffle, I replied. 

Peter Whistle? was her interrogative reproduction. 

Presently the quiet even voice of Bill Haywood was 
heard from the drawing-room, a voice that by its very 
mildness compelled silence : 
. Violence, yes. we advocate violence of the most vio- 
lent sort, violence that consists in keeping your mouth 
shut and your hands in your pockets. Don’t fold your 
arms, I say to the men, but keep your hands in your 
pockets to keep hired thugs and detectives from putting 
bombs there. In doing this and staying on strike you are 
committing the most violent acts in the world, for you 


[133] 


Peter Whiffle 


are stopping industry and keeping it stopped until the 
mill owners grant your demands, an eight hour day, two 
looms to a worker, and higher wages. 

See how he talks, pointed out my unidentified com- 
panion, rubbing his flabby fingers the while around the 
flange of his wine-glass, about half-full of red California 
wine. No rage, no emotion, a simple explanation of the 
humanities. Let us go in where we can hear him better. 

But when we joined the throng in the drawing-room, 
we discovered that Haywood was not beginning. He had 
already finished what he had to say to the group and 
had returned to his more intimate conversation with 
Edith. He brought back to my mind Cunninghame 
Graham’s description of Parnell, not popular, in the 
hail-fellow-well-met and loudly cheered conception of 
the word, but yet with an attraction for all women 
whom he came across, who were drawn to him by his 
careless treatment of them, and by the wish that nature 
has implanted in their sex, to be the rulers of all men 
who stand above their kind. 

Did it ever occur to you, my companion began again, 
that there is some strange relationship between trade 
unionism and tribal magic? You know how the men of 
one union cannot do the work for the men of another 
union. What is this restriction but the taboo? 

What, indeed? I echoed pleasantly, unable to think 
of anything more apposite to say. Besides, my atten- 
tion was wandering. I had discovered Peter, who ap- 


[134] 


an ae > J 
Se ee oe ee 


His Life and W. HAE 


peared to be engrossed in the charms of a pretty girl of 
whom I knew little except that her name was Mahalah 
Wiggins. 

Now the round-faced, cherubic Max Weber rose to 
speak. 

The art consciousness is the great life consciousness, 
he began in his somewhat high-pitched voice. Its prod- 
uct and the appreciation of its product are the very 
flower of life... . Hutchins Hapgood’s companion con- 
tinued to finger lovingly the polished wooden African 
figure. .. . Its presence in man is Godliness on earth. It 
humanizes mankind. Were it spread broadcast it would 
do away with dry, cold intellectualism, which dead and 
unfired, always seeks refuge in pretending to be more 
than it is.... Bill Haywood, the giant Arimaspian, 
was pounding the seat of the brocaded sofa with his 
great fist... . Art or art consciousness is the real proof 
of genuine human sympathy. It oozes spiritual ex- 
pression. Were it fostered it would sooner solve the 
great modern economic problem than any labour propa- 
ganda.... Helen Westley was yawning, with a great 
open jaw, which she made no effort to conceal.... A 
lack of this art consciousness—Weber was very earnest, 
but in no sense theatrical—on the part of both capital 
and labour, is one cause of this great modern struggle. 
Were this art consciousness more general, material pos- 
session would be less valued ; the covetous spirit would 
soon die out.... Yorska, a wraith of black satin and 


[135] 


Peter Whiffle 


black tulle, her pale Pierrot face slit with crimson and 
punctuated with two black holes, lined with purple, 
stood in the doorway motionless, like another Rachel, 
with one hand lifted above her head, grasping the cur- 
tain, trying to look uncovetous. . . . Art socializes more 
than socialism with its platform and its platitudes. ... 
Bravo! This from Hippolyte Havel. ... Economists go. 
not deep enough into the modern monetary disease. 
They deal only with materialism. They concentrate 
only on what is obvious, the physical starvation of 
the toiling class, but never do they see or seem to real- 
ize the spiritual starvation or the lack of an art con- 
sciousness to both capital and labour. They would argue 
that the material relief must come first. I reply, now as 
always, we must begin with the spiritual. I do not see, 
however, how the spiritual or esthetic can be separated — 
from the material. . . .Clara Barnes gave an angry shake 
to her long earrings, but Donald Evans had the rapt at- 
tentive air of a man hearing a great truth for the first 
time. ... The common solution of this great problem is 
too dry, too matter of fact, too calculated, too technical, 
too scientifically intellectual and not enough intellec- 
tually imaginative. Art consciousness is not merely a 
form of etiquette, nor a phase of culture—it is life— 
the quality of sensitive breathing, seeing, hearing, de- 
veloped to a high true spirituality. Man would value 
man more. The wonder of and the faith in other human 
beings would kindle a new social and spiritual life. 


[136] 


His Life and Works 


That’s good talk, was Bill Haywood’s comment. . 

What does it all mean? Clara Barnes caught my at- 
tention again; it was obvious that she could catch no 
one else’s. ) 

It means what you are willing or able to put into it, 
nothing more, I affirmed. 

Well, said Clara, yawning, I guess I can’t put much 
into it. This is worse than a party I went to last week, 
given by a baritone of the Aborn Opera Company. 

At this point, a little school-marm type of person, 
with a sharp nose and eye-glasses, rose and shrilly began 
to complain. 

I am a mere lay woman. I don’t know a thing about 
modern art. I’ve been trying to learn something for five 
years. In the effort, I have attended all the meetings of 
this kind that I could in Paris, New York, and London. 
There’s always a lot of talk but nothing is ever clear. 
Now I’d like to know if there isn’t some explanation of 
modern art, an explanation that a mere lay woman could 
understand. | 

There was a ripple of amused laughter among the 
young artists and a rapid exchange of glances, but not 
one of them rose. Instead, a rather massive female, ut- 
terly unknown to me, with as many rows of gold braid 
across her chest as a French academician, a porter at 
the Crédit Lyonnais, or a soldier in the army of the 
Prince of Monaco, stood on her feet. 

What, exactly, would you like to know? she asked in 


[137] 


Peter Whiffle 


a voice in which authority and confidence were equal 
elements. 

I'd like to know everything, but I’d be satisfied with 
anything. What, for instance, is the meaning of that 
picture ? | 

She pointed to Andrew Dasburg’s The Absence of - 
Edith Dale, a cubistic contribution to esthetic produc- 
tion in several planes and the colours of red, yellow, and 
blue. 

The massive lady began with some hesitation. Her 
confidence had not deserted her but she seemed to be 
searching for precise words. 

Well, she said, that picture is the kind of picture that 
gives pleasure to the kind of people who like that kind 
of picture. The arrangement of planes and colours is 
very satisfying. Perhaps I could explain it to you in 
terms of music. Do you understand the terminology of 
music ? 

Not at all, snapped the little woman with the eye- 
glasses. 

The massive lady seemed gratified and continued, In 
that case, you may have difficulty in following me, but 
if you take the first and second themes of a sonata, 
their statement, the development or working-out sec- 
tion, the recapitulation, the coda.... It has some re- 
lation to the sonata form certainly, but. .. . The artist 
is in the room, the artist who painted the picture. Won't 
you explain the picture, Mr. Dasburg? 


[138] 


His Life and Works 


Andrew, very much amused, did not take the trouble 
to rise. 

The picture is there, he said. You can look at it. Then, 
after a pause, he added, Henry James says, Woe, in the 
esthetic line, to any example that requires the escort of 
precept. It is like a guest arriving to dine accompanied 
by constables. 

Then, said the little lady, solemnly, I say, Woe to 
that picture, woe to it, for it certainly requires the es- 
cort of precept. Moreover, I don’t think any one here 
knows anything, not a thing! she cried, her voice rising 
to a shrill intensity, not a blessed thing. It’s just like 
the last chapter of Alice. If I shouted, Why, you’re 
only a pack of cards, you'd all fly up in the air, a lot 
_of flat pasteboards with kings, queens, aces, and deuces 
painted on your faces! J shall never ask another ques- 
tion about modern art. My private impression is that 
it’s just so much junk. 

Very indignant now, she wrapped an ice-wool shawl 
around her bony shoulders and made her way out of the 
room. 

There wasn’t an instant’s pause and her departure 
caused no comment. A new speaker began, 

The world, it may be stated, for the purposes of clas- 
sification, is divided into four groups: the proletariat, 
the aristocrats, the middle class, and the artist class. 
The artist class may be called by any other name, bo- 
hemians, anarchists, revolutionists, what you will. It 


[139] 


Peter Whiffle 


includes those who think and act freely, without tra- 
ditions or inhibitions, and not all people who write or 
paint belong to this class at all. The artist class lives 
the way it wants to live. The proletariat and the aris- 
tocrats live the way they have to live. The middle class 
is composed of members of the proletariat trying to live 
like the aristocrats. ... , 

My mind wandered. I glanced across at Peter. He 
was still absorbed in Mahalah Wiggins and did not ap- 
pear to be listening to the speaker. Yet, if he were really 
writing a realistic novel, the talk, the whole atmosphere 
of the evening should have interested and enthralled 
him. He never looked up and he was whispering very 
rapidly. 

Some people resemble animals ; some, perhaps, min- 
erals ; assuredly, some resemble flowers. Mahalah Wig- 
gins was like a pansy. Her hair was black with purple 
lights ; her eyes were a pale pansy blue; her face bore 
an ingenuous pansy expression that made one wonder 
why pansies were for thoughts. She wore a purple vel- 
vet dress with long tight sleeves ending in points which " 
reached her knuckles, and, around her throat, a chain 
of crystal beads that hung almost to her waist. 

Intercepting the long look I gave the girl, Neith 
Boyce smiled. 

Are you, too, interested in Mahalah? she asked. 

I am interested in the effect she is making. 

She always makes an effect, Neith rejoined. 


[140] 


His Life and Works 


Who is she? 

An orphan. Her father left her a little money, which 
she is spending at the Art Students’ League, trying to 
learn to draw. Her only real talents are obvious. She 
knows how to dress herself and she knows how to attract 
men. Your friend seems to like her. 

He does, indeed. 

Mahalah comes here often and always spends the 
evening in a corner with some man, She seems to pre- 
fer married men. Is your friend married ? 

No. | 

A fat woman in a grey crépe dress, embroidered in 
steel beads, standing in the centre of the room, shifted 
my attention. 

Who is that? I asked. 

That is Hiss Gladys Waine, replied Neith. She is the 
wife of Horace Arlington, the sculptor. 

Miss and a wife? What is she then, herself? 

Nothing. She does not write, or paint, or compose. 
She isn’t an actress. She is nothing but a wife, but she 
insists on retaining her individuality and her name. If 
any one addresses her as Mrs. Arlington, she is furious, 
and if you telephone her house and ask for Mrs. Arling- 
ton, although she may answer the telephone herself, she 
will assure you that Mrs. Arlington is not in, does not, 
in fact, live there at all. She adores Horace, too. The 
curious thing is that Horace’s first wife, who divorced 
him, has never given up his name, of which she appears 


[141] 


Peter Whiffle 


to be very proud. She is always called Mrs. Horace 
Arlington and trembles with rage when some tactless 
person remembers her own name. 

My anonymous companion was by my side again 
with a plate of chocolate ice cream which he offered me. 

Did you ever try eating chocolate ice cream and 
smoking a cigarette simultaneously? he asked. If you 
haven’t, allow me to recommend the combination. The 
flavour of both cigarette and ice cream is immensely 
improved. 

An old lady with an ear-trumpet, thinking she had 
been addressed, took the plate of ice cream from his 
outstretched hand, leaned over us and queried, Eh? 

I say, said my incognito companion, that there is 
nothing like a good dose of castor oil. 

Nothing like it for what? she shrieked. 

As a carminative! he yelled. 

But I don’t suffer from that complaint, she ee 

Allow me to congratulate you, madame, and he 
bowed to her. 

As we were saying, he continued, in a confidential 
manner, grasping my arm, one cannot be too careful in ~ 
writing a drama. Weak, low-born people in trouble are 
pathetic ; the middle classes in the same plight are sub- 
jects for melodrama or comedy ; but tragedy should deal 
with kings and queens. 

The groups separated, came together, separated, 
came together, separated, came together: syndicalists, 


[142] 


His Life and Works 


capitalists, revolutionists, anarchists, artists, writers, 
actresses, “‘perfumed with botanical creams,’ femi- 
nists, and malthusians were all mixed in this strange 
salad. I talked with one and then another, smoking 
constantly and drinking a great deal of Scotch whisky. 
Somehow, my strange companion, like the Duchess in 
Alice, contrived always to be at my side. Remembering 
the situation at the Queen’s croquet party, I could not 
help feeling grateful that his chin was square and that 
he was shorter than I. At one o’clock I had a headache 
and decided to go home. I looked for Edith. 

She went to bed hours ago, Neith explained. 

Then I made a vain search through the rooms for 
Peter. 

One of the two young men who had dined with us 
stopped me. 

If you are searching for your friend, he said, he went 
away with Mahalah Wiggins. ; 


[143] 


Chapter VIII 


Friendship usually creates onerous obligations. Our 
friends are inclined to become exigent and demanding. 
They learn to expect attentions from us and are hurt 
when we do not live up to these expectations. Friends 
have an unpleasant habit of weighing on our consciences, 
occupying too much of our time, and chiding us because 
we have failed them in some unimportant particular. Is 
it strange that there are moments when we hate them? 
Friendship, indeed, is as perilous a relationship as mar- 
riage ; it, too, entails responsibility, that great god whose 
existence burdens our lives. Seemingly we never escape 
from his influence. Each newly contracted friendship 
brings another sacrifice to the altar of this very Chris- 
tian divinity. But there was no responsibility connected 
with my friendship for Peter. That is why I liked him 
so much. When he went away, he seldom notified me 
of his departure ; he never wrote letters, and, when he 
returned, I usually re-encountered him by accident. In 
the whole of our long acquaintance, there never was a 
period in which he expected me to telephone him after 
a decent interval. We were both free in our relationship, 
as free as it is possible for two people, who are fond of 
each other, to be. There was a great charm in this. 


[144] 


His Lifeand Works 


A whole month went by, after Edith Dale’s party, 
without my hearing from him. Then I sought him out. 
By this time, I knew him well enough to be prepared 
for some transmutation; but I was scarcely prepared 
for what I saw. His room on East Broadway had been 
painted ivory-white. On the walls hung three or four 
pictures, one of Marsden Hartley’s mountain series, a 
Chinese juggler in water colour by Charles Demuth, a 
Picabia, which ostensibly represented the mechanism 
of a locomotive, with real convex brass piston-rods pro- 
truding from the canvas, a chocolate grinder by Marcel 
Duchamp, and an early Picasso, depicting a very sick- 
looking pale green woman, lying naked in the gutter of 
a dank green street. There were lovely desks and tables, 
Adam and Louis XIV and Frangois I, a chaise longue, 
banked with striated taffeta cushions, purple bowls 
filled with spiked, blue flowers, Bergamo and Oushak 
rugs, and books bound in gay Florentine wall-papers. 
The bed was covered with a Hungarian homespun linen 
spread, embroidered in gay worsteds. The sun poured 
through the window over George Moore’s ample back 
and he looked happier. 

Peter was wearing green trousers, a white silk shirt, 
a tie of blue Chinese damask, clasped with a black 
opal, and a most ornate black Chinese dressing-gown, 
around the skirt of which a silver dragon chased his tail. 
He was combed and brushed and there was a faint 
odour of toilet-water. His nails were manicured and or 


[145] 


Peter Whiffle 


one of his little fingers I observed a ring which I had 
never seen him wear before. Later, when I examined it 
more closely, it proved to be an amethyst intaglio, with 
Leda and the Swan for its subject. It has been said, per- 
haps too often, that you cannot make a silk purse out 
of a sow’s ear. It is even more true that you cannot 
make a sow’s ear out of a silk purse. 

I rose to the room: It’s nicer than Edith’s. 

It’s not bad, Peter admitted. I didn’t get it fixed up 
at first. I like it better now, don’t you? 

I liked your friend, the other night, he continued. 

You mean Edith? 

Yes. You must take me there again. 

I’m sorry, but that is impossible. She has given up her 
apartment and returned to Florence. But, I added, I 
didn’t know that you had talked together. 

We didn’t exchange three words, not even two, he 
said, but I took her in and she took me in. We like each 
other, I’m sure, and some day we'll meet again. Look, 
he added, sweeping his arm around, see what her 
glamour has given me, a new life! 

But why did you leave so early ? 

I met a girl.... 

The next few weeks have left a rather confused im- 
pression in my mind, perhaps because Peter himself 
seemed to be confused. He never spoke of his book. 
Occasionally we went to the theatre or to a concert. I 
remember a concert of Negro music at Carnegie Hall, 


[146] 


Korky te 
; i te sly Sooapli acid anes 
Re Oe is ee a 


His Life and Works 


when there were twenty-four pianos and thirty banjos 
in the band and the Negroes sang G’ wine up, Go Down, 
Moses, Rise and Shine, Run Mary, Run, and Swing 
Low, Sweet Chariot, with less of the old plantation 
spirit than either Peter or I could have assumed, but 
when the band broke into ragtime, the banjos twanged, 
the pianos banged, the blacks swayed back and forth, 
the roof was raised, and glory was upon us. Once, com- 
ing out of AZolian Hall, after a concert given by Elena 
Gerhardt, we were confronted by a wagon-load of double 
basses in their trunks. Two of the monsters, with their 
fat bellies and their long necks, stood vis-a-vis on the 
sidewalk and seemed to be conversing, while their broth- 
ers on the wagon, a full nine, wore the most ridiculously 
dégagé air of dignity. We will not sit down, not here at 
any rate, they plainly said, but they did not complain. 
Peter laughed a good deal at them and remarked that 
the aristocrats in the French Revolution must have gone 
to the guillotine in much the same manner, only the ab- 
surd double basses in their trunks had no roses to smell. 
Never have I seen inanimate objects so animate save 
once, at a rehearsal in the darkened Belasco Theatre, 
when the curly gold backs of the ornate chairs, peeping 
over the rails of the boxes, assumed the exact appear- 
ance of Louis XIV wigs on stately gentlemen. We heard 
Toscanini conduct the Ninth Symphony at the Metro- 
politan Opera House and we went to see Mrs. Leslie 
Carter play Paula Tanqueray. Often, in those days, we 


[147] 


Peter Whiffle 


dined at the Pavillon d’Orient, an Armenian restaurant — 
on Lexington Avenue. Peter particularly enjoyed a pud- 
ding called Tavouk Gheoksu, made of shredded chicken- 
breasts, pounded rice flour, powdered sugar, and cinna- 
mon, and Midia Dolma, which are mussels stuffed with 
raisins and rice and pignolia nuts. Studying the menu 
one night, it occurred to him that the names of the 
dishes would make excellent names for the characters 
of a play. The heroine, of course, he said, would be 
Lahana Sarma and the adventuress, Sgara Keofté; En- 
guinar is a splendid name for a hero, and the villain 
should be called Ajem Pilaf! There was a Negro café in 
the basement of a building on Thirty-eighth Street, 
which we frequently visited to see a most amazing mu- 
latto girl, apparently boneless, fling herself about while a 
pitch-black boy with ivory teeth pummelled his drum, 
at intervals tossing his sticks high in the air and catch- 
ing them dexterously, and the pianist pounded Will 
Tyers’s Maori out of the piano. Occasionally we pat- 
ronized more conventional cafés, one especially, where 
Peter was interested in a dancer, who painted her face 
with Armenian bole and said she was a descendant of 
a Hindu Rajah. 

It was during this period that Peter noursteell a desire 
to be tattooed and we sought out masters of the art on 
the Bowery and at Coney Island. For hours at a time 
he would examine the albums of designs or watch the 
artist at work decorating sailors and stevedores. One of 


[148] 


e 
Lova gRusB' 


NEGRO DRUMMER 
trom a drawing by Miguel Covarrubias 


His Life and Works 


these young men came nearly every day until his entire 
body, with the exception of his eye-balls, lips, and nails, 
had become a living Persian carpet, a subtle tracery of 
arabesques and fantastic beasts, birds and reptiles. The 
process of application was interesting. First, the pat- 
tern must be pricked out on glazed paper, smeared with 
lamp-black ; this was laid on the surface to be tattooed 
and the outline left by the lamp-black was worked over 
with needles. The artist utilized a piece of wood into 
which were fixed with wires, nine or ten sharp points. 
The victims seemed to suffer a good deal of pain, but 
they suffered in silence. It was not, however, fear of pain 
that caused Peter to hesitate. I think he would have 
been frescoed from head to foot, could he have once 
decided upon a design. Day after day, he looked over 
the sketches, professional symbols, military, patriotic, 
and religious, symbols of love, metaphorical emblems 
and emblems fantastic and historical, frogs, tarantu- 
las, serpents, hearts transfixed with arrows, crosses sur- 
mounted by spheres, and cannon. He was most tempted, 
I think, by the design of an Indian holding aloft the 
flag of the United States. 

Late in March, he suggested a trip to Bermuda. 

We must go somewhere, he explained, and why not 
‘Bermuda? It’s not too far away. 

I had been working hard and welcomed the idea of 
a vacation. To the question of a destination I was com- 
paratively indifferent. It was, however, not too easy to 


[149] 


Peter Whiffle 


arrange for even a brief leave of absence from the Times 
during the busy Winter months. By pleading incipient 
nervous prostration, however, | managed to accomplish 
my purpose. _ 

On the day marked for our departure, I set out, bags 
in hands, for the office of the steamship company on 
lower Broadway, where Peter had commissioned me to 
stop for the tickets. There, a clerk behind the counter 
gave me a note. It was from Peter. | 

Dear Carl, it ran, I’ve cancelled our bookings. I can’t 
go. Come in to see me today and we'll arrange another 
trip. : 

An hour later I found Peter in bed in his room on 
East Broadway. He was consuming a raw-beef sand- 
wich but he laid it down to grasp my hand. 

I’m sorry, he began, but I don’t know how I ever 
happened to hit on the idea of Bermuda. When I awoke 
this morning, the thought appalled me; I couldn’t get 
out of bed. 

The counterpane was strewn with pamphlets relating 
to foreign travel. The telephone rang. 

Excuse me, he said, as he clutched the receiver. Then, 
by way of explanation, It’s the agent of the Cunard 
Line. I want to ask about the southern route. 

He did. He asked about sailings for Italy, Africa, 
India, and even Liverpool and then he told the agent 
that he could not decide what to do but he would let 
him know later. 


[150] 


Alis Life and Works 


Carl, he exclaimed suddenly, let’s go to Alaska! 

I shook my head. 

It may be that we shall meet there by chance some 
day, but I don’t believe you can make up your mind to 
go there this week. 

I’m afraid not, he assented ruefully. I suppose it’s 
hard for you to understand. 

I understand well enough, I replied, but under the 
circumstances you will have to travel alone or get some 
one else to go with you. While you are deciding, my 
leave of absence will expire. 

A few days later he telephoned me. 

I’m really going to Bermuda, was his message. I’ve 
had bookings on every boat sailing for Europe the past 
week and cancelled them all. My first idea was the right 
one. Bermuda is a change, it’s near at hand, and I can 
get back quickly if I don’t like it. Come to Bermuda 
with me, Carl! 

When are you sailing? I asked. I’ll come down to see 
you off. ia 

On the day set, I went to the wharf, and to my great 
surprise, found Peter there, just as he had promised he 
would be, an hour before sailing time. If he kept an en- 
gagement at all, he always kept it on time. He had made 
preparations, buying new summer clothes, he explained, 
and a new innovation trunk. As he never knew how long 
he would stay in one place or where he would go from 
there, he always carried a great deal of apparently un- 


[151] 


Peter Whiffle 


necessary baggage. This time he had five trunks with 
him and several bags, including two for the cats. As 
we stood on the wharf together, we saw these trunks 
being hoisted aboard. Then we walked up the gang- 
plank and went to seek out his cabin. He did not like 
it, of course, and he hunted up the purser and asked to 
be transferred to another part of the boat. The ship was 
crowded and no other cabin was vacant, but the purser, 
spurred to extra effort by the tip which Peter handed 
him, promised to try to get him one of the officers’ 
rooms. A little later this transfer was effected and, be- 
fore I left the boat, Peter was installed in his new quar- 
ters. As I bade him farewell, I thought he looked a little 
wistful. I watched the boat pull out into the river. — 

Five hours later, as I was working in the tower of the 
New York Times, I was called to the telephone. 

I said, Hello, and almost dropped the receiver, for I 
had heard Peter’s voice from the other end of the wire. 

I’m back on East Broadway, he groaned. Do come 
down. 

When I arrived, I found him propped up in bed, 
drinking tea, which he shared with me. 

I just couldn’t go! It wouldn’t have been right to 
go feeling the way I did about it. Something dreadful 
would have happened. 

But I saw the boat cast off her moorings. 

Peter grinned. 

We were steaming down the river. I was very tired 


[152] 


His Life and Works 


and, having the desire to rest in bed, I began to undress. 
Suddenly it came over me that I had made a great mis- 
take. I put my clothes on again rapidly, dashed to the 
deck, and hunted up the purser. You know, he had al- 
ready befriended me. I told him that I had just opened 
my mail and my telegrams and had run across one in- 
forming me of the violent illness of my father—you 
know how much that would really worry me !—and 
that I must go back. He informed me that this was im- 
possible, but another bill—a very large one this time— 
made him more sympathetic and my disembarkation 
was arranged with the aid of a tug-boat. I even got my 
trunks off, but I had to cry a good deal to do that. I’m 
very sorry for you, Mr. Whiffle, the purser said. He will 
never forget me, I’m sure. 

The telephone rang. Peter lifted the receiver from the 
hook and I heard him say, Please reserve me a deck 
cabin on the Kronprinz Wilhelm sailing tomorrow. He 
turned, as he put the receiver back : I’m not crazy about 
the North German Lloyd but I’ve already sailed this 
week on the French Line, the Holland-American, the 
Cunard, and the White Star. I had to change. 

By telephone the next day, I learned that Peter had 
not sailed on the Kronprinz Wilhelm. 

Do you know, he said, I’ve hit on a solution. I could 
not decide where to go—every place has its faults—but 
it has occurred to me that I am not compelled to go 
anywhere ; I can stay on right here! 


[153] 


Peter Whiffle 


There is still a pendant to this part of my tale. In 
May, Peter informed me that he had rented a house 
on Long Island, a small cottage near Great Neck, with 
a big fire-place and furniture that would do. He took 
me out with him the first night. He had engaged a man 
and his wife, Negroes, to care for the place and cook. 
We enjoyed a very good dinner and he seemed to have 
settled down for the summer but in the morning, at 
breakfast, I, and the Negroes, learned that he was 
dissatisfied. 

I don’t like the place much, he explained, at least, I 
don’t think I do. At least, I’m not going to stay here. 

He paid the servants two weeks wages and dismissed 
them. Then he telephoned an expressman to call for 
his trunks, none of which had been opened. Carrying 
the bags, two of which contained cats, we caught the 
9 o'clock train back to town. 

Before this last fluctuation, some time in April, I 

think it was, Peter’s father really did die. Peter did 
not go to Toledo for the funeral but, after it was over, 
Mrs. Whiffle came to New York and I met her one day 
at tea. There was no change in Peter; certainly not a 
band of black on his arm. 

He did seem to have one fixed idea that spring, an 
idea that centred on marriage. : 

I’m not particularly in love with any one, he ad- 
mitted, and so it is rather difficult to choose, but I 
want children and my children must have a mother. 


[154] 


His Life and Works 


There is Mahalah Wiggins... and there is the Rajah’s 
grand-daughter. Well, I don’t know that they will marry 
me, but I must decide what I am going to do before I 
give them a chance to decide what they are going 
to do! 

A week or so later: I’ve been considering this ques- 
tion of marriage. It’s a serious step. I can’t rush into a 
thing like that. Mahalah doesn’t like cats. You know, 
I couldn’t give up my cats. I can’t marry a woman who 
doesn’t like cats. Luckily I haven’t asked her. 

A few days later: I will marry Mahalah, I think. She 
understands me; she doesn’t seem to mind the crazy 
things I do. She is beginning to like the cats. She is 
healthy and she might produce fine children. 

Another interval and then: She has accepted me. 
Isn’t it wonderful for her to love me at my age for my 
money alone! 

The preparations for the wedding were portentous, 
although it was to be celebrated as quietly as possible. 
There were clothes to buy and an apartment to be fur- 
nished. He left the decision of the day and place to 
Mahalah—fortunately that was her affair—but there 
was endless discussion about the honeymoon. He con- 
sidered in turn nearly every spot on the globe, includ- 
ing Patagonia and Abyssinia. As the day in May set 
for the ceremony approached, Maine was mentioned 
rather more frequently than any other locality, but I 
had no real conviction that they would ultimately go 


[155] 


Peter Whiffle 


there. I was to be the sole attendant at the wedding. 
That much seemed to be settled. 

The great day dawned and brought with it a windy 
rain. I knew that Peter detested windy days; one of his 
superstitions associated them with disaster. He did not 
telephone me in the morning and his silence seemed 
ominous. Nevertheless, I put on a morning coat and 
a silk hat and presented myself at his rooms an hour 
before the minute set for the ceremony, which was to 
be celebrated in a little church in the neighbourhood. 
On another day, I would not have been surprised to 
find a note from Peter instead of himself but when, on 
reaching the top landing, I discovered the door open, 
and an old charwoman, packing up books and bowls 
inside, handed me a note with the superfluous informa- 
tion that Mr. Whiffle had gone away, my knees shook 
to such an extent that I wondered if I had suddenly 
become afflicted with tabes. 

I managed to ask, Where? 

I dunno, sir. He took his trunks. 

I opened the letter. * 


Dear Carl, it ran, I just couldn’t do it. It wouldn’t 
be right to do it, if I feel that way, would it? And I do, © 
indeed, I do! I told you I was not in love and it’s hard 
to make up your mind if you don’t feel strongly enough, 
and I never feel strongly enough about anything until 
afterwards. You know that. Now, that’s soon enough | 


[156] 


His Life and Works 


about Bermuda or a house in the country, but it’s too 
late in marriage. So I’ve just called it off. I’ve written 
her a note which doesn’t exactly explain anything but 
some day she'll be glad, I hope, and so all you have to 
do is to make her feel that it’s all right. Somehow, I 
believe she will understand. Anyway, I don’t think she 
will be surprised. I’m going to Africa and, if I ever have 
an address again, I'll send it to you. 

Peter. 


[157] 


Chapter [1X 


In September, 1913, I found myself on the Paris- 
Milan Express on my way to Venice to meet Edith 
Dale. I have travelled across Switzerland many times 
and I hope to do so again (the view from the car- 
windows is magnificent), but I shall never visit that 
country. God keep me from lingering in the mountains 
or by the shores of the sea. Such immensities of nature 
strangle talent and even dwarf genius. No great crea- 
tive work has ever been composed by the sea or in the 
shadow of a mountain. In the presence of the perpetual 
mysteries of nature, man feels his smallness. There are 
those who may say that the sky-scrapers of the city 
evoke a similar feeling, but man’s relation to these is 
not the same; he knows that man built these monster 
structures and that man will tear them down again. 
Mountains and the sea are eternal. Does this explain 
why so much that passes for art in America comes from 
Indiana and Illinois, the flat, unimposing, monotonous 
Middle West? 

All journeys, I suppose, have their memorable in- 
cidents and episodes, however unimportant. My sole 
memory of this particular hegira is trifling. While I was 
dining, the train gave a lurch or a swerve, hurling me 


[158] 


His Life and Works 


with my plate in my lap to the farthest corner of the 
car. The soup which the plate contained was in my 
lap, too, and elsewhere. Fortunately, the soup was not 
too hot. The accident recalled how once in a French 
drawing-room I had spilled a cup of calid coffee on my 
leg, scorching it painfully. The hostess was concerned 
about her carpet. I do hope, she was saying, that you 
haven’t spilled your coffee on my carpet. I had not, but 
my leg was burned so badly and I felt so outraged by 
her lack of sympathy, that I took occasion later to 
make good the omission. Another night, another year, 
and certainly another place, a celebrated lady, next to 
whom I was sitting at supper, whisperingly adjured me 
to upset my coffee into her lap. She was wearing a new 
and elaborate frock and, astonished by her unreason- 
able request, I was dilatory in obeying. She whispered 
again, this time more sharply, Do as [ tell you! At last 
I obeyed her, but the attempt at carelessness must have 
seemed very clumsy. I am a poor actor. Apologize, was 
her next command. Meekly, I followed instructions. 
Now she spoke aloud. It doesn’t matter at all, she 
said. It’s only an old rag. The other gentlemen present 
condoled with her, but she smilingly put them off, Don't 
make the boy feel bad. It wasn’t his fault. Next day, 
while I lunched with her, a great many boxes arrived 
from Bendel’s and Hickson’s. Every man who had at- 
tended the supper had bought her a new dress, as she 
had been sure they would! 


[159] 


Peter W. hiffle 


Towards nightfall, we approached the Italian border 
and after we had passed into Italy, the compartment, 
which had been crowded all day, was empty but for me 
and another man. As he was a Roumanian, who spoke 
neither French nor English, we did not converse. About 
8 o'clock, we lay down on our respective seats and tried 
to sleep. It was nearly midnight when we arrived at 
Milan and I was glad to descend from the train, after 
the long journey, to take a few hours repose at a hotel 
near the station. Early in the morning, which was bright 
and sunny, I departed for Venice. _ 

In the evening of that day, I was sitting at a table 
in the garden of Bonvecchiati’s with Edith, who had 
motored down from Florence. Since the night I had 
taken Peter to her house in Washington Square, I 
had seen her only for fleeting moments, but she bridged 
the months immediately. Peter had been correct in his 
assumption that she would remember him. In fact, one ~ 
of the first questions she asked was: Where is that boy 
you brought to my house the other night? 

It was ‘‘the other night” to Edith ; months and even 
years meant nothing to her. 

Peter Whiffle ? 

Yes, a nice boy. I liked him. Where is he? Let’s take 
him back to Florence with us. 

I don’t know where he is. 

Then I told her the story of how Peter did not get 


married. 


[160] 


His Life and Works 


I knew he was amusing. Let’s get in touch with his 
vibrations and find him. 

Edith, indeed, had invented her own kind of wireless 
long before Marconi came along with his. Distances, as 
a matter of fact, circumscribed her even less than time. 

Just then, she saw Constant Lounsberry, or some one 
else, at a table in the corner of the garden where we 
were dining and she strolled over to talk with her. Sip- 
ping my coffee and smoking my cigarette, I recognized a 
familiar voice and turned to see Peter, with his mother, 
about to claim an adjacent table from which the occu- 
pants were rising. He looked two years younger than 
he had four months before and his rather pretty mother 
helped to confirm the illusion. Of course, I joined them 
at once and soon we were discussing the Italian futu- 
rists, the comparative merits of spaghetti and risotto, 
Lydia Borelli, the moving pictures, and the Marchesa 
Casati, who had given a magnificent festa the evening 
previous, when, clad in a leopard’s pelt, she had stood 
on the steps of her palace, and greeted her guests as 
they approached by gondola on the Canale Grande. 
Peter, I noted, was wearing his amethyst intaglio of 
Leda and the Swan on the little finger of his left hand. 
After a time, during which, for a few brief moments, 
the conversation drifted towards Toledo and the small 
affairs of Mrs. Whiffle, he told me his story. 

I came near dying in Africa, Carl, surrounded by 
niggers and fleas! It was horrible. Hot as a New York 


[161] 


Peter Whiffle 


roof-garden and nearly as uncomfortable. There I lay, 
rotting with a nameless fever, no one with me but an 
incompetent Dutch doctor, who was more ignorant of 
the nature of my complaint than I was myself, and a 
half-naked aboriginal, who wanted to call in the witch- 
doctor and who, when burked in this direction, at- 
tempted a few amateur charms, which at least had 
the merit of awakening my interest. There I lay in a 
rude thatched hut with a roof of caked cow-dung; I 
couldn’t eat, drink, or speak. I thought it was the end. 
Funny, but the only sound that reached my ears, after 
a few days, was the chattering of monkeys, and later 
they told me there were no monkeys about at all. 
Over my head on the wall, hung a dirty thonged 
whip. Whether its purpose was to beat women or oxen, 
I don’t know, but, you will remember, perhaps, that 
sometimes, when I awaken from sleep in the middle of 
the night, I have a strange habit of holding one arm 
straight up in the air, at right angles with my body. 
Well, while I was ill, there it was, most of the time, 
straight up ! One night, when my strength was fast ebb- 
ing away, I reached higher and grasped the whip. Then 
I grew drowsy; everything seemed to turn blood-red, 
even the palm-leaves that waved across the opening 
made by the doorway of the hut, and it was very hot, 
unspeakably roasting. Now, through this same door- 
way, walked a woman in a rusty black robe and, al- 
though I knew it must be Death, the figure confused 


[162] 


His Life and Works 


itself in my mind with Kathleen-ni-Houlihan and (will 
you believe it?) Sara Allgood! Fancy the appearance of 
Death in the middle of Africa suggesting to me the 
character of an Irish play and the actress I had seen 
in it ! There followed a slight pause, during which Death 
stood perfectly still. Then two more figures entered the 
tiny hut. One was the Devil, Ahriman, Abaddon, what 
you will; I recognized him at once, he was so likable 
and, besides, he was lame. The other, I gathered after 
a little conversation, was an emissary from heaven. 
Eblis seated himself on one side of my cot, resting 
his crutches against the wall, and Gabriel’s ambassa- 
dor stood on the other side. Now these two droll fel- 
lows began to describe the climates and amusements 
of heaven and hell to me, each speaking in his turn, 
and continually interrupting themselves to beg me to 
decide speedily where I wanted to go. They stated 
frankly that they had not any too much time, as they 
had several other visits to make before dinner in various 
parts of the world. The Angel polished his feathers with 
a small hatbrush and the Devil seemed to be taking 
good care of his nails, in default of the opportunity to 
visit a manicure. Death stood immovable, inexorable. 
Imagine, even in her presence, I had to make up my 
mind where I wanted to go. It was a terrible experience, 
I can tell you! It was as if she were saying, Hurry now, 
hurry now! Nine minutes more. Only, of course, she did 
not utter a single word. The Angel and the Devil were 


[163] 


Peter Whiffle 


too silly. Had they been silent, it would have been so 
much easier for me to decide. My mind would just be — 
wavering in a certain direction, when one of the super- 
natural visitors would put me completely out with a 
warning about his rival’s domain and a word of enthu- 
siasm for his own. Never have I suffered such agony. 
I could not decide whether to go to Paradise or Pande- 
monium. My perplexity increased as they argued. Mean- 
time, it was obvious that I was keeping Death from 
other bedsides. I could see that she was becoming nery- 
ous and irritable, shifting first on one foot, then on the 
other. It was evidently very irksome to her that she 
had taken a vow of silence. In life, it is so easy ; there 
is always something else to do. But, in death, Carl, 
there is a single alternative; at least, it seemed so to 
me for an unconscionable space of time. Suddenly, how- 
ever, two ideas occurred to me: I remembered that I 
had read somewhere that demon and deity were origi- 
nally derived from the same root: in that case, one 
place would be as bad or as good as the other; and I 
remembered my solution of the Bermuda problem: I 
could stay where I was. J was not compelled to go any- 
where. Stretching up my hands, I pulled hard on the 
whip, which must have broken loose from the nail, be- 
cause when I came out of my coma, the thongs were 
gripped tightly in my hand, lying on the blanket. 
Peter concluded his story and, suddenly, with that 
delightful inconsequence, which contributed so definite 


[164] 


Fis Life and Works 


a charm to his manner, he pointed to a woman in the 
crowd. 

She resembles an ostrich and she is dressed like a 
peacock, he said. 

Peter, I wish you wouldn’t jest about death and holy 
things, interjected Mrs. Whiffle, on whose literal mind 
the tale had evidently clawed as an eagle claws the 
brain of a cat. . 

But, mother, Peter tried to mollify her, I am not 
jesting. I am telling you something that happened. 

Something that you (fhought had happened, Mrs. 
Whiffle corrected, but we should only think good 
thoughts. We should keep the dark ones out of our 
minds, especially when they interfere and conflict with 
the powerful words of Almighty God, our Creator. 

I’m sorry, mother, I won’t tell it again, he said, 
simply. Then, after a nibble or two at a lobster, he. 
turned to me, Mother is going to America tomorrow. 
I shall be alone. Have you been to the Austrian Tyrol? 
There’s Russia, of course, and Spain, and those islands 

where Synge used to go. Where are they? And Bucha- 
rest. Carlo, will you go with me tomorrow to Buenos 
Ayres or Helsingfors? 

You are not to be told where you are going, I replied, 
but you are going with me. 

Experience has taught me that people with principles 
are invariably unreasonable. Peter had no principles and 
therefore he was reasonable. So the next day, he really 


[165] 


Peter Whiffle 


did drive back with us to Florence, through the pleas- 
ant olive groves and vineyards. A jeroboam of chianti 
enlivened the journey, and Edith adored the story 
of Peter’s encounter with Death, the Devil, and the 
Angel. | 


The Villa Allegra is set on the hills of Arcetri, high 
above the long cypress-bordered avenue called the Stra- 
done del Poggio Imperiale. The villa is so artfully con- 
cealed amongst the cunningly-grouped, gnarled olive 
trees, eucalypti, myrtles, plane-trees, laurels, pepper- 
trees, and rows of cypresses, that, until you are in the 
very courtyard, you are unaware of its propinquity, 
although, by some curious paradox, the view from the 
loggia commands the surrounding country. The lovely 
curve of the facade has been attributed to the hand of 
Raphael, and Brunelleschi is said to have designed the 
cortile, for the physician of the Medici once inhabited 
this country house, but the completely successful loggia 
and the great salone were added by Chester Dale. 

Peter had never been in Florence before ; no more had 
I; so the romantic charm of this lovely old house in the 
mountains served to occupy us for several days. We 
inspected the sunken Roman bath and were thrilled by 
the rope-ladder, which, when lowered through a trap- 
door, connected a chamber on the second storey with a 
room on the first. We were satisfied to sit in the evening 
under the red damask walls, illuminated by wax tapers 


[166] 


AONANOTA LY 
(eIuoIND IIIA) VUOATIV VITIA AHL NI NOIVS MOTIAX AHL 


CM Pa aes 


His Life and Works 


set in girandoles of green and rose faience, to stroll in 
the gardens, to gaze off towards the distant hills from 
the loggia. Edith entertained us with long accounts of the 
visits of the spectre, the dame blanche who haunted 
the house. It was, if the servants who swore they had 
seen her were to be believed, the spirit of an elderly 
maiden lady who had died there. In life, it seems, she 
had been of a jealous disposition and had tried to make 
the villa uncomfortable for other guests. She was not 
successful in this effort until she died, and not alto- 
gether successful even then, for there were those who 
refused to be terrified by the persistent presence of this 
spinster eidolon, which manifested itself in various 
ways. Others, however, resembled Madame de Staél, 
who did not believe in ghosts but was afraid of them. 
In the mornings, Peter and I breakfasted together in 
the garden, whither was borne us by the cynical butler 
a tray with individual drip coffee-pots, a plate of fresh 
rolls, and a bowl of honey. The peacocks strutted the 
terrace and the breeze blew the branches of the fragrant 
gardenias across our noses. In the distance, the bells 
of Florence softly tolled. In the afternoon, the faraway 
hills became purple and, in the evening, the atmosphere 
was tinged with green. The peasants sang in the road 
below and the nightingales sang in the olive copse. 
Roman lamps flickered on the tables and Strega, the 
golden witch-liquid, stood in our tiny crumpled Vene- 
tian tumblers, their distorted little bellies flecked with 


[167] 


Peter Whiffle 


specks of gold. There were occasional callers but no 
other resident guests than ourselves at the villa and 
Edith, as was her custom, left us a good deal alone. 
On the day of our arrival, indeed, she disappeared after 
luncheon and only returned two days later, when she 
explained that she had gone to visit a friend at Pisa. 
We usually met her at dinner when she came out to 
the garden-table, floating in white crépe de chine, with 
a turban of turquoise blue or some vivid brilliant green, 
but during the day she was seldom visible. She ate her 
breakfast alone on the balcony above our bedroom, 
then read for an hour or two. What she did after, 
one never knew, save as she told of it. 

Meanwhile, Peter and I wandered about, inspecting 
the shops on the Ponte Vecchio, tramping through the 
old palaces and galleries. Several times Peter paused ; 
he hesitated for the longest time, I think, before the 
David of Donatello, that exquisite soft bronze of the 
Biblical lad, nude but for his wreathed helmet, standing 
in his adolescent slender beauty with one foot on the 
head of the decapitated giant. He carries a sword and 
over his face flutters a quizzical expression. Indeed, 
what Walter Pater said of the face of Monna Lisa 
might equally well apply to the face of David. So re- 
marked Peter, explaining that the quality of both the 
David and Leonardo’s darling was the same, both pos- 
sessed a compelling charm, and it was the charm of 
David which had slain the ugly giant, just as charm 


[168] 


DONATELLO’S DAVID 


} { 
© } a rye , i 
4 * 4 
* 
7 
\ 
‘ 4 


His Life and Works 


always kills ugliness. And he swore that this was the 
most beautiful object that the hand of man had yet cre- 
ated, an art expression which reached its emotional and 
intellectual zenith, and then he spoke of the advantage 
that sculpture enjoyed over painting. 

One tires of a painting. It is always the same. There 
is never anything new in it. But with a statue, every 
different light gives it a novel value, and it can be turned 
around. When you tire of one aspect, you try another. 
That is why statues belong in houses and pictures be- 
long in museums. You can visit the museum when you 
wish to look at a picture, but it is impossible to live 
with a picture, because it is always the same. You can 
kill any picture, even a picture by Velazquez, by hang- 
ing it on your own wall, for in a few days it becomes a 
commonplace to you, a habit, and at last one day you 
do not look at it any more, you scarcely are aware that 
it is there at all, and you are surprised when your friends 
speak of it, speak of it admiringly. Yes, you say, uncon- 
vinced, it is beautiful. But you do not believe it. On the 
other hand, a statue is new every day. Every passing 
cloud in the sky, every shifting of the location of a 
lamp, gives a new value to a statue, and when you tire 
of seeing it in the house, you can transfer it to the gar- 
den where it begins another avatar. 

Leaving David behind us, we walked down the long, 
marble, fourteenth century stairway of the Palazzo del 
Podesta, into the magnificent court embellished with 


[169] 


Peter Whiffle 


the armorial bearings of the old chief magistrates, out 
to the Via del Procénsolo, on through the winding 
streets to the Palazzo Riccardi, where Peter again 
paused before the frescoes of Benozzo Gozzoli. The 
Gifts of the Magi is the general title but Gozzoli, ac- 
cording to a pleasant custom of his epoch, has painted 
the Medici on a hunting expedition, the great Lorenzo 
on a white charger, with a spotted leopard at its heels, 
falcons on the wrists of his brilliant attendants, a long 
train of lovely boys, in purple and mulberry and blue 
and green and gold, the colours as fresh, perhaps, as 
the day they were painted. The most beautiful room in 
the world, Peter exclaimed, this little oratory about the 
size of a cubicle at Oxford, painted by candlelight, for 
until recently, there was no window in the room, and 
I believed him. I am not sure but, belike, I believe him 
still. Then Peter loved the walk in that gallery which 
connects the Pitti Palace with the Uffizi, a long narrow 
gallery which runs over the shops of the Ponte Vecchio 
(was ever another bridge so richly endowed with artistic 
and commercial interest ?) where hang the old portraits 
of the families who have reigned in Florence, and some 
others. Quaint old canvases, they are, by artists long 
forgotten and of people no longer remembered, but more 
interesting to Peter and me than the famous Botticellis 
and Bellinis and Giorgiones which crowded the walls 
of the galleries. As we stood before them, Peter imagined 
tales of adventure and romance to suit the subjects, pin- 


[170] 


Alts Life and Works 


ning his narratives to the expression of a face, the style 
of a sleeve, the embroidery of a doublet, or to some 
accompanying puppet or pet, some ill-featured hunch- 
back dwarf. 

Thus the days passed and Peter became dreamy and 
wistful and the charm of his spirit, I believe, was never 
before so poignant, for his chameleon soul had taken 
on the hue of the renaissance and its accompanying 
spirituality, the spirituality of the artist, the happy 
working artist contriving works of genius. He could 
have perfectly donned the costume of the cinquecento, 
for the revolutionary Peter of New York, the gay, faun- 
like Peter of Paris, had disappeared, and a Peter of 
reveries and dreams had usurped their place. 

Never have I been so happy, he said to me on one 
of these days, as I am now. This is true beauty, the 
beauty of spirit, art which has nothing to do with life, 
which, indeed, makes you forget the existence of life. 
Of course, however, this is of no help to the contem- 
porary artist. Confronted, on every hand, with perfec- 
tion, he must lay down his chisel or his brush or his 
pen. Great art can never flourish here again. That is 
why Browning’s poetry about Florence is so bad ; why 
Ouida, perhaps a lesser artist, succeeded where Brown- 
ing failed. This is the ideal spot in which to idle, to 
dream, even to think, but no work is possible here and 
that, perhaps, is why I love Florence so much. I feel 
that I could remain here always and, if I did I should 


[171] 


Peter Whiffle 


do nothing, nothing, that is, but drink my coffee and 
eat my rolls and honey in the morning, gaze across to 
the hills and dream, stroll over the wondrous Ponte 
Santa Trinita, which connects us so gracefully with the 
Via Tornabuoni, wonder how Ghirlandaio achieved the 
naive charm of the frescoes in the choir of Santa Maria 
Novella, nothing else but these things. And, of course, 
I should always avoid the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele. 

But he had scarcely uttered the name before he de- 
termined that he must drink some beer and so we 
strolled across the Piazza, on which he had just placed 
a malison, into the Giubbe Rosse, full of Americans 
writing letters, and Swedes and Germans, reading their 
native papers. We sat down at a table just outside the 
door and asked one of the red-coats, whose scarlet jack- 
ets give this place its cant name, to bring us two steins 
of Miinchener. Then came an anachronism, one of those 
anachronisms so unusual in Florence which, more than 
any other city, is all of a piece. A stage-coach, such a 
coach as one sees in old England, drawn by four horses, 
drove gaily through the square. The interior seemed 
empty but on the top sat several English girls in 
sprigged muslins, a few pale youths, and a hatless 
man with very long hair, who was clad in olive-green 
velvet. 

Who is it? I asked a man at a neighbouring table. 

And the reply came, That is Gordon Craig and his 
school. 


[172] 


His Life and Works 


_A few days later, Peter encountered Papini, that 
strange and very ugly youth, who mingled his dreams 
and his politics, mixing mysticism and propaganda until 
one became uncertain whether he was seer or socialist, 
and Marinetti. He read Mafarka le Futuriste and Mari- 
netti talked to him about war and vaudeville, noise 
and overthrow, excitement and destruction. Bomb the 
palaces and build factories where they stood! So Mari- 
netti enjoined his followers. Whatever is today is art; 
whatever was yesterday is nothing, worse than nothing, 
refuse, manure. Peter was especially amused by Mari- 
netti’s war cry, Méprisez la femme! his banishment of 
the nude and adultery from art, which was to become 
entirely male. So, indeed, was life, for Marinetti ex- 
horted his male disciples to bear their own children! 
All these ideas, Peter repeated to me in a dreamy, 
veiled voice, noting at the same time that one of 
Marinetti’s arms was longer than the other. It did 
not seem quite the proper environment to carry on in 
this respect, but the words of the Italian futurist had 
indubitably made an impression. I could see that it 
was quite likely that Peter would become a Marinettist 
when he went back to New York. 

At dinner, one night, it became apparent that Peter 
once more was considering his life work. One of the 
guests, a contessa with a florid face and an ample 
bosom, began to fulminate : 

Art is magic. Art is a formula. Once master a formula 


[173] 


Peter Whiffle 


and you can succeed in expressing yourself. Barrie has 
a formula. Shaw has a formula. Even George Cohan > 
has a formula. Black magic, negromancy, that’s what 
it is: the eye of a newt, the beak of a raven, herbs 
gathered at certain hours, the heart of a black cat, 
boiled in a pot together, call up the bright devils to 
do your bidding. 

Art is a protest, corrected Mina Loy. Each Ate is 
protesting against something : Hardy, against life itself ; 
Shaw, against shams; Flaubert, against slipshod work- 
manship; George Moore, against prudery ; Cunning- 
hame Graham, against civilization; Arthur Machen, 
against reality ; Theodore Dreiser, against style... . 

Never did I feel less sure of the meaning of art than 
I do here, surrounded by it, began Peter, although I 
have never been more conscious of it, more susceptible 
to real beauty, more lulled by its magic. Yet I do not 
understand its meaning. It does not help me to work 
out my own problems. The trails cross. For instance, 
here is Edith leading her own life ; here are we all lead- 
ing our own lives, as remote as possible from Donatello 
and Gozzoli. Here is Gordon Craig, dressed like Bun- 
thorne, driving a stage-coach and sending out arcane 
but thundering manifestos against a theatre in which 
his mother and Eleanora Duse are such conspicuous 
examples; here is Papini working and dreaming ; here 
is Marinetti shooting off firecrackers ; here are the Brag- 
giottis, teaching young Americans the elements of music 


[174] 


His Life and Works 


in that modern music-room with bas-relief portraits 
of the great composers, Beethoven, Bach, Verdi, Mo- 
zart, Wagner, Rossini...and Sebastian B. Schlesin- 
ger, moulded in the frieze. Here is Loeser, always build- 
ing new houses and never completing them; here is 
Arthur Acton, with a chauffeur who sings tenor arias 
in the drawing-room after dinner; here is Leo Stein, 
collecting Renoirs and Cézannes for his villa at Set- 
tignano. What does it all mean, unless it means that 
everything should be scrambled together? I think a 
great book might be written if everything the hero 
thought and felt and observed could be put into it. You 
know how, in the old novel, only what is obviously es- 
sential to the plot or the development of character is 
selected. But a man, crossing a street to commit a mur- 
der, does not continuously think of the murder. The cry 
of Buns ! hot cross buns! the smell of onions or dead fish, 
the sight of a pretty woman, impress his senses and re- 
mind him of still other things. These ideas, impressions, 
objects, should all be set down. Nothing should be 
omitted, nothing! One might write a whole book of 
two hundred thousand words about the events of an 
hour. And what a book! What a book ! | ams 

This was before the day of Dorothy Richardson, 
James Joyce, and Marcel Proust. The contessa snorted. 
Mina Loy, at the other end of the table, looked inter- 
ested in Peter for the first time, I thought. The white 
Persian cat, one of Edith’s cats, with his superb porce- 


[175] 


Peter Whiffle 


lain-blue eyes, sauntered into the room, his tail raised 
proudly. Edith spoke: 

The great artists put themselves into their work ; a 
cat never does. Men like Stieglitz and de Meyer put 
themselves into their cameras, that is why their photo- 
graphs are wonderful, but the cat never puts himself 
into a camera. The great conquerors put themselves 
into their actions ; the cat never does. Lovers put them- 
selves into the selves of their loved ones, seeking iden- 
tity ; the cat never does. Mystics try to lose themselves 
in union with their gods ; the cat never does. Musicians 
put themselves into their instruments; the cat never 
does. Indian men, working in the ground, put them- 
selves in the earth, in order to get themselves back in 
the forms of wheat or maize to nourish their bodies ; the 
cat never does. Navajo women, when they weave blank- 
ets, go so completely into the blanket while they are 
working on it, that they always leave a path in the 
weaving that comes out at the last corner for their 
souls to get out of the blanket ; otherwise they would 
be imprisoned in it. The cat never does things like this! 

So every one really centres his self somewhere outside 
of himself ; every one gets out of his body. The cat never 
does. Every one has a false centre. Only the cat—the 
feline—has a true centredness inside himself. Dogs and 
other animals centre themselves in people and are there- 
fore open to influence. The cat stays at home inside his 
body and can never be influenced. 


[176] 


His Life and Works 


Every one has always worked magic through these 
false centres—doing things to himself—seeking outlets, 
seeking expression, seeking power, all of which are only 
temporarily satisfactory like a movement of the bowels, 
which is all it amounts to on the psychic plane. The cat 
is magic, 7s himself, cs power. The cat knows how to 
live, staying as he does inside his own body, for that is 
the only place where he can live! That is the only place 
where he can experience being here and now. 

Of course, all the false-centred people have a kind 
of magic power, for any centredness is power, but it 
doesn’t last and it doesn’t satisfy them. Art has been 
the greatest deceiver of all—the better the art, the 
greater the deception. It isn’t necessary to objectify 
or express experience. What IS necessary IS to be. The 
cat knows this. Maybe, that is why the cat has been an 
object of worship ; maybe, the ancients felt intuitively 
that the cat had the truth in him. 

Do you see where these reflections lead? The whole 
world is wildly pursuing a mirage; only the cat is at 
home, so to speak. | 

Actors understand this. They only get a sense of 
reality when they throw themselves into a part....a 
false centre. 

The cat understands pure being, which is all we need 
to know and which it takes us a lifetime to learn. It 1s 
both subject and object. It is its own outlet and its own 
material. It és. All the rest of us are divided bits of self, 


[177] 


Peter Whiffle 


some here, some there. The cat has a complete subjec- 
tive unity. Being its own centre, it radiates electricity — 
in all directions. It is magnetic and impervious. I have 
known people to keep a cat so that they could stroke 
the electricity out of it. Why didn’t they know how to 
be electric as the cat IS? The cat is the fine specimen 
of the I am. Who of us is so fully the I am that I] am? 

Look around the world! Everybody putting himve// 
oul in some form or another! Why? It doesn’t do any 
good. At the end you exhaust the possibilities of the 
outside world—geographically and spiritually. You can 
use up the external. You can come to the end of objec- 
tifying and objectives, and then what? In the end, only 
what we started with—the Self in the body, the Self at 
home, where it was all the time while bits of it were 
wandering outside. 

Peter applauded with sundry bravos and benisons 
and divers amens, but was moved to ask, Does the cat 
know this? Has the cat got a conscious being? Does he 
appreciate his advantage? 

But no one answered these questions, least of all the 
haughty white Persian. 

Apparently unreasonably (this biography was as far 
from my mind as anything well could be), following a 
habit which I never could explain to myself until I be- 
came a professional writer and the reason became clear, 
before going to bed, I made notes on this and several 
subsequent evenings and it is upon these notes that I 


[178] 


His Life and Works 


am drawing now, to refresh my memory. A few nights 
later, when Edith and Peter and I were sitting alone on 
the loggia, Peter talked to us about the critics. 

The trouble with the critics, he was saying, is that 
they are not contradictory enough. They stick to a 
theory for better or worse, as unwise men stick to an 
unwise marriage. Once they have exploited a postulate 
about art or about an artist, they make all his work con- 
form to this postulate, if they admire it. On the other 
hand, if the work of an artist displeases them, they use 
the postulate as a hammer. | think it is Oscar Wilde 
who has written, Only mediocre minds are consistent. 
There is something very profound in this aphorism. 

Consider Frank Harris’s Shakespeare theory, for ex- 
ample. It is good enough as an idea, as a casual inspira- 
tion it is almost a masterpiece. It would make a fine 
essay ; if it had been used as a passing reference in a 
book, it probably would have been quoted for years. 
Harris, however, has spun it out into two thick volumes 
and made it fit into crevices and crannies where it can- 
not very well feel at home. Certainly, it is true that any 
artist creates his characters out of his own virtues and 
weaknesses ; all of a novelist’s characters, to a certain 
extent, reflect phases of himself. The mistake Harris 
has made lies in identifying Shakespeare only with his 
weak, unsuccessful, sentimental, disappointed, unhappy 
characters, such as Hamlet, Macbeth, Orsino, Antonio, 
and Romeo. Shakespeare probably was just as much 


[179] 


Peter Whiffle 
Sir Toby Belch and Falstaff. Curiously, this theory of 


identification fits the critic himself, the intellectual crea- 
tor, more snugly than it does the romancer, the emo- 
tional creator. Remy de Gourmont has pointed this out. 
He says, Criticism is perhaps the most suggestive of 
literary forms; it is a perpetual confession ; believing 
to analyze the works of others, the critic unveils and 
exposes himself to the public. So from these books we 
may learn more about Frank Harris than we do about 
Shakespeare.! This, of course, has its value. 

But that is why Shakespeare is greater than his 
critics, that is greater than the critics who cling to 
one theory. Shakespeare speaks only through his char- 
acters and he can say, or make some one say, 


Frailty, thy name is woman, 


but on the next page another character may deny this 
sentiment, for this is not Shakespeare’s opinion, it is 
that of an incensed lover. So Richard III remarks: 
Conscience is but a word the cowards use, 
Devised at first to keep the strong in awe. 
But Hamlet replies : 


Thus conscience does make cowards of us all. 


Both are true, both good philosophy, and so from the 
playwright, the great poet, the novelist, you get a 
rounded view of life which a critic usually denies you. 


1In a later book, his biography of Oscar Wilde, Frank Hoses tells us more 
about himself than he does about Wilde. 


[180] 


Ais Life and Works 


Occasionally a critic does contradict himself and 
really becomes human and delightful and we take 
him to our hearts, but the next day all the doctors 
and professors and pundits are excoriating him, assur- 
ing us that he is not consistent, that he is a loose writer, 
etc. Good critics, I should like to believe, are always 
loose writers ; they perpetually contradict themselves ; 
their work is invariably palinodal. How, otherwise, can 
they strive for vision, and how can they inspire vision 
in the reader without striving for vision themselves? 
Good critics should grope and, if they must define, they 
should constantly contradict their own definitions. In 
this way, in time, a certain understanding might be 
reached. For instance, how delightful of Anatole France 
to describe criticism as a soul’s adventures among mas- 
terpieces, and then to devote his critical pen to minor 
poets and unimportant eighteenth century figures. 

But, asked Edith, does not the reader in his own 
mind contradict the consistent critic? Does not this 
answer your purpose ? 

By no means. What you say is quite true. A dog- 
matic writer rouses a spirit of contradiction in the 
reader, but this is often a spirit of ire, of deep resent- 
ment. That is in itself, assuredly, something, but it is 
not the whole purpose of criticism to arouse anger, 
whatever the prima donna who reads the papers the 
morning after her début at the Opera may think. 
Criticism should open channels of thought and not 


[181] 


Peter Whiffle 


close them ; it should stimulate the soul and not revolt 
it. And criticism can only be wholesome and sane and 
spiritually stimulating when it is contradictory. I do 
not mean to say that a critic should never dogmatize— 
I suppose at this moment I myself appear to be dog- 
matizing! He may be as dogmatic as he pleases for a 
page or two pages, but it is unsafe to base an entire 
book on a single idea and it is still more unsafe to re- 
flect this idea in one’s next book. It is better to turn the 
leaf and begin afresh on a new page. Artists are never 
consistent. Ibsen apparently wrote A Doll’s House to 
prove that the truth should always be told to one’s 
nearest and dearest and, apparently, he wrote The Wild 
Duck to prove that it should not. Ibsen, you see, was a 
poet and he knew that both his theses were true. In his 
attempt to explain the revolutionary doctrines which he 
found inherent in Wagner’s Ring, Bernard Shaw ran 
across many snags. He swam through the Rheingold, 
rode triumphantly through Die Walktire, even clam- 
bered gaily through Siegfried, by making the hero a 
protestant, but when he reached Gotterdimmerung, 
his hobby-horse bucked and threw him. Shaw was 
forced to admit that Goétterddmmerung was pure 
opera, and he attempted to evade the difficulty by 
explaining that Wagner wrote the book for this work 
before he wrote the other three, quite forgetting that, 
if Wagner’s intention had been the creation of a revo- 
lutionary cycle, it would have been entirely possible for 


[182] 


His Life and Works 


him to rewrite the last drama to fit the thesis. The fact 
is that the work is inconsistent from any point of view 
except the point of view of art. Any critic who is an 
artist will be equally inconsistent. 

Truth! Truth! Peter cried in scorn. Forsooth, what 
is truth? Voltaire was right: error also has its 
merits. 

And yet... I began. 

And yet! he interrupted, still more scornfully. No, 
there is no such thing as truth. Truth is impossible. 
Truth is incredible. The most impossible and incredible 
physical, spiritual, or mental form or idea or conception 
in the cosmos is the cult of truth. Truth implies per- 
manence and nothing is permanent. Truth implies 
omniscience and no one is omniscient. Truth implies 
community of feeling and no two human beings feel 
alike about anything, except perhaps for a few shifting 
seconds. Truth, well if there is such a thing as truth, 
we may at least say that it is beyond human power to 
- recognize it. 

But it is not impossible to approach Truth, to play 
around her, to almost catch her, to vision her, so to 
speak. No, that is not impossible. Natheless, the artist, 
the writer, the critic who most nearly approaches Truth 
is he who contradicts himself the oftenest and the loud- 
est. One of the very best books James Huneker has 
written is a work purporting to come from the pen of a 
certain Old Fogy, in which that one opposes all of 


[183] 


Peter Whiffle 


James’s avowed opinions. It is probable, indeed, that 
we can get the clearest view of Huneker’s ideas from 
this book. 

Then truth is not an essential of art? I asked. 

It has, of course, nothing whatever to do with art. 
No more has form. Life has so much form that art, 
which should never imitate life, should be utterly lack- 
ing in form. Criticism appears to be a case apart. Criti- 
cism is an attempt, at its worst at least, to define art 
and definition implies truth and error. But what the 
critics do not realize in their abortive efforts to capture 
her, is that Truth is elusive. She slips away if you try 
to pin her down. You must, as Matthew Arnold has 
said much better than I can, approach her from all 
sides. Even then she will elude you, for the reason I 
have elucidated, because she does not exist ! 

Why do we read the old critics? For ideas? Seldom. 
Style? More often. Anecdote? Always, when there is 
any. Spirit? We delight in it. Facts? Never. No, you 
will never find facts—at least about such a metaphysi- - 
cal concept as art—correctly stated in books, because 
there is no way of stating them correctly. And the eva- 
sion of facts is an exact science which has yet to become 
popular with the critics, although it is always popular 
with readers, as the continued success of Berlioz’s Mé- 
moires goes to show. We read the old critics fo find out 
about the critics, not about the subjects on which they 
are writing. Consequently, it is only the critics who 


[184] 


lis Life and Works 


have been interesting personalities who are read through 
many generations. 

As an addendum, I might state that interest in art 
is fatal. An enthusiastic essay will kill anything. Spon- 
taneity and freshness do not withstand praise. Art must 
be devoid of self-consciousness. A certain famous actress 
once told me that she never liked to have people par- 
ticularize in their enthusiasm about one of her per- 
formances. When, she said, they tell me that such 
and such a gesture, such and such a tone of voice, is the 
important moment in one of my interpretations, I can 
never repeat it without remembering their praise, and, 
involuntarily, something of the original freshness has 
departed. 

I remember another occasion on which Peter talked 
about the subject that most interested him. 

It is the pleasant custom of present day publishers 
of books, he was saying, to prelude the real publication 
of a volume by what is technically known as a dummy. 
The dummy, the sample from which orders are taken, 
to all outward inspection, appears to be precisely like 
the finished book. The covers, the labels, the painted 
top, and the uncut edges give one every reason to hope 
for a meaty interior. Once opened, however, the book 
offers the browser a succession of blank pages. Sheet 
after sheet of clean white paper slips through his fingers, 
unless, by some chance, he has opened the volume at the 
beginning, for the title-page and table of contents are 


[185] 


Peter Whiffle 


printed (the dedication is missing), and so are the first 
thirteen pages of the text. 

Such dummies are irresistible to me. Coming warm, 
hot even, from the binder, they palpitate with a sug- 
gestion which no perusal of their contents can disturb. 
How much better than the finished book! I exclaim, 
and there are days when I feel that I will never write 
a book ; I will write only dummies. I would write a title- 
page, a table of contents, and thirteen pages of some 
ghost essay, breaking off in the middle of a curious 
phrase, leaving the reader sweetly bewildered in this 
maze of tender thought. And, to give this dummy over- 
value, to heighten its charm and its mystery, I would 
add an index to the blank pages, wherein one could 
learn that on empty page 76 hovered the spirits of 
Heliogabalus and Gertrude Atherton. It would further 
inform one that Joe Jackson, George Augustus Sala, and 
fireless cookers were discussed on page 129. Fancy the 
reader’s delight in learning that he might cull passages 
dealing with the breeding of white mice on unbegotten 
pages 67, 134, 185 et seq., 210, 347! 

I have it in mind to call my first dummy, Shelling 
Peas for Shillings. The binding will be of magenta 
boards with a pistachio-green label, printed in ma- 
genta ink. The top will be stained pistachio-green and 
the edges will be unopened. On the title-page, I shall 
set an appropriate motto and a plausible table of con- 
tents might include: 


[186] 


His Life and Works 


The Incredible History of Ambrose Gwinett 

Inkstains and Stoppage 

Purcell, Polko, and Things Beginning with a P 

Folk-dancing at Coney Island 

Carnegie Hall as a Cure for Insomnia 

Many Blue Objects and One Black One 

Ouida’s Italy 

Erasmus Darwin's Biographer 

Etc. : 

You see how the subjects present images and ideas 
which will make it possible for the reader, in his mind’s 
eye, to write the papers himself. Shelling Peas for Shil- 
lings, Peter rolled the name over. It’s a good title. I 
shouldn’t wonder if sometime that dummy would be 
much sought after by collectors. 


[187] 


Chapter X 


My story rolls on. As I gaze back through the years, 
gathering the threads of this history together, trying to 
weave them into form, I am amazed to recall how very 
few times, comparatively speaking, Peter and I met. 
Yet I presume I was his best friend during these years, 
at any rate his most sympathetic friend. If there were 
no other proof, his will would offer excellent evidence 
in this respect. But we saw each other seldom, for a few 
hours, a few days, at best for a few weeks, followed by a 
period of vacuum. I had my own interests and, doubt- 
less, he had his. It was characteristic that he never 
wrote letters to me, with the exception of the one or 
two brief notes I have already inserted in the text. His 
personality, however, was so vivid, the impression he 
made on me was so deep, that he always seemed to be 
with me, even when the ocean separated us. As I write 
these lines, I could fancy that he stands beside me, a 
sombrely joyous spectre. I could believe that he bends 
over my shoulder or, at any rate, that presently I will 
hear a knock at the door and he will enter, as he entered 
Martha Baker’s studio on that afternoon 1 in May so 
long ago. 

The magic Florentine days cae to a close. I say 


[188] 


His Lufe and Works 


marched, but the musical form was more exactly that of 
a gavotte, a pavane, or a stately Polish dance, imagined 
by Frederic Chopin. It was too perfect to last, this life 
which appeared to assume the shape of conscious art. 
One afternoon, Peter and I motored to the old Villa 
Bombicci, the design of which legend has attributed 
to the hand of Michael Angelo. Now it had become a 
farmhouse, and pigs and chickens, a cock and a few 
hens, stray dogs and cats, wandered about in the carious 
cortile. We had come to bathe in the swimming-pool, a 
marble rectangle, guarded by a single column of what 
had once been the peristyle. A single column, a cornered 
wall, and a cluster of ivy: that was the picture. We 
could bathe nude, for the wall concealed the pool from 
the farmhouse. 

Peter was the first to undress and, as he stood on the 
parapet of the pool by the broken column, his body 
glowing rose-ivory in the soft light of the setting sun, 
his head a mass of short black curls, he seemed a part 
of the scene, a strange visitor from the old faun-like 
epoch, and I could imagine a faint playing of pipes be- 
yond the wall, and a row of Tanagra nymphs fleeing, 
terrified, in basso-rilievo. Sometime, somewhere, in the 
interval since the days when we had pursued the ex- 
terior decorators on the Bowery and at Coney Island, 
he had discovered an artist, for now his chest was tat- 
tooed with a fantastic bird of rose and blue, a bird of 
paradise, a sirgang, or, perhaps, a phoenix or a Zhar- 


[189] 


Peter Whiffle 


Ptitsa, the beak pointing towards his throat, the feath- 
ers of the tail showering towards that portion of the 
body which is the centre of umbilicular contemplation 
among the Buddhists. He straightened his lithe body, 
lifted. his arms, and dived into the pool, where he swam 
about like a dolphin. It was Peter’s nature, as I must 
have made evident by now, to take the keenest joy in 
everything he did. Almost immediately I followed and 
we puffed and blew, spattering the crystal drops about 
in the air, so that it seemed as if showers of stones fell 
sharply, stinging our faces, as we lay on our backs in the 
warm water. Eventually, clambering up to the parapet, 
we sat silent for many moments and I remember that a 
fleecy cloud passed over the face of the sinking sun. It 
was very still, save for the soft lowing of cattle in the 
distant mountains, the cackling of the hens in the 
courtyard, and the sweet tolling of faraway bells. 

Peter broke the silence. 

I am not going back to the villa, he said. 

Peter! I exclaimed. But.... | 

I didn’t know until just now. I love the villa. I love 
Florence. I love Edith and I love you. I have never 
been so happy, but it couldn’t last. Just now when we 
were spattering water I had a premonition.... He 
laughed. There was once a singer—I do not recall her 
name, but it was neither Patti nor Jenny Lind—who 
retired while she was still in the best of voice, and those 
who heard her in her last opera will always remember 


[190] 


His Life and Works 


what a great singer she was. So I am going away while 
I am happy, so that I can always remember that I have 
been perfectly happy—once. 

But you always are.... 

There, you see, you think so! There are months and 
years when I am alone, when nobody sees me. Then 
I am struggling. I make a great deal of sport about work 
and, indeed, I won’t work at anything that doesn’t in- 
terest me, but you know, you must know by now, how 
much I want to write. It is coming so slowly. It is get- 
ting late... late. I must go away to think. I’m too 
happy here and I am losing time. He was very earnest 
now. I must write my book. 

But you are coming back to the villa. Your clothes 
are there, and you will want to say good-bye to 
Edith. 

No, that is just what I want to avoid and that is 
what you can do for me. I can’t say good-bye to Edith. 
She would persuade me to stay. It would be so easy! 
You, especially, could persuade me to stay, but I know 
you won’t, now that you understand how I feel. I shall 
catch the night express for Milan. Please, try to explain 
to Edith ... and you can pack my bags and send them 
after me. 

But where are you going? 

I don’t know, and even if I did know and told you, 
you might be certain that I would change my mind 
and go somewhere else. Dispatch my bags to the Amer- 


[191] 


Peter Whiffle 


ican Express Company in Paris and I will send for 
them. 

When shall we meet again? 

Peter stood up, his nude body outlined against the 
crumbling, pink, vine-covered wall. Then he turned and 
stooped to draw on his clothing. 

Chi lo sa? It will be sometime. You are going back 
to New York? 

Yes, very soon. Perhaps next week. 

Well, if we don’t meet somewhere else, I will go there 
to see you, that much I promise. Then, almost awk- 
wardly, he added, I want you to have my ring. He drew 
off the amethyst intaglio of Leda and the Swan and 
handed it to me. 

We dressed in silence. The motor stood waiting in 
the road beside the decrepit farmhouse, noble even in 
its decay. Peter asked the chauffeur to drive him to 
the station, before he should take me back to the Villa 
Allegra, and at the station we parted. 

Dinner that night seemed tasteless. Edith was fu- 
rious ; I have seldom seen her so angry. It was exactly 
what she would have done herself, had she been so in- 
clined, but she was not at all pleased to have Peter 
usurp her privileges. She hardly waited for the salad, 
leaving me to munch my cheese and drink my coffee 
alone. Following dinner I sat, a solitary figure on the 
loggia, smoking a cigarette and sipping my Strega. 
Giuseppe, the boy who brought it to me, seemed as 


[192] 


FHlis Life and Works 


dispirited as the rest of us. After trying in vain to in- 
terest myself in half a dozen books, I went to bed and 
rolled about restlessly during the long hot night. I was 
up very early and went to the garden as usual, but now 
lonely and miserable, to have my breakfast. The butler, 
more cynical than ever, brought the tray. A gardenia 
and a note were added touches. They were Edith’s fare- 
wells. She had departed for a motor trip through the 
Abruzzi. She might return in three weeks. I was wel- 
come to stay at the villa and wait or.... And so that 
summer ended. 


A month later, Edith was back in New York and 
again I saw a good deal of her. She asked for news of 
Peter but I had none to give her. Other friends of mine 
who had heard about him from Edith, expressed a de- 
sire to meet him but, so far as I was concerned, I did 
not even know whether or not he was alive. In Decem- 
ber, however, passing through Stuyvesant Square with 
its gaunt bare trees, the old red-brick Quaker school- 
houses, and the stately but ugly Saint George’s, on my 
way to Second Avenue, where I intended to visit a shop 
where Hungarian music might be procured, I found him, 
sitting alone on a bench. 

I am too happy to see you again, he greeted me, but 
only you. Edith must not be told that I am in New 
York, for at last I am working and I can afford no in- 
terruptions. Edith has a way of breaking up the rhythm 


[193] 


Peter Whiffle 


of one’s life and my life is very rhythmic just now. Do 
you remember, one night at the villa, there was some 
conversation about formule and black magic? 

~ You mean the contessa. . 

She was speaking feiriaels perhaps, bis I have 
taken her literally. He paused for a moment; then he 
continued, It is possible that you will also remember 
my telling you in Florence that I believed Donatello’s 
David to be the most beautiful work of art in the world. 

I remember ; I still think you were right. 

I haven’t altered my opinion. It is the most beautiful 
statue I have ever seen, just as Debussy’s |’ Aprés-midi 
d’un Faune is the most beautiful music I have ever 
heard, just as The Hill of Dreams is—have you read it? 

At that time, I had not, and I admitted it. I was even 
ignorant of the name of the author. 

Now Peter, as he sat on the bench beside me, began 
to speak of Arthur Machen: The most wonderful man 
writing English today and nobody knows him! His 
material is handled with the most consummate art; 
arrangement, reserve, repose, the perfect word, are 
never lacking from his work and yet, at the age of 
fifty, he is an obscure reporter on a London newspaper. 
There are, of course, reasons for this neglect. It is a. 
byword of the day that one only takes from a work of 
art what one brings to it, and how few readers can bring 
to Machen the requisite qualities ; how few readers have 
gnosis | 


[194] 


ay 


ARTHUR MACHEN 
Camera Portrait by E. O. Hoppé 


His Life and Works 


Machen evokes beauty out of horror, mystery, and 
terror. He suggests the extremes of the terrible, the 
vicious, the most evil, by never describing them. His 
very reserve conveys the infinity of abomination. You 
know how Algernon Blackwood documents his work 
and stops to explain his magic orgies, so that by the 
time you have finished reading one of his weird stories, 
you completely discount it. On the other hand, although 
Machen writes in the simplest English concerning the 
most unbelievable impieties, he never lifts the crimson 
curtain to permit you to see the sacrifice on the Mani- 
chean altar. He leaves that to the imagination. But his 
expression soars so high, there is such ecstasy in his 
prose, that we are not meanly thrilled or revolted by 
his negromancy ; rather, we are uplifted and exalted by 
his suggestion of impurity and corruption, which leads 
us to ponder over the mysterious connection between 
man’s religious and sensual natures. Think, for a mo- 
ment, of the life of Paul Verlaine, dragged out with 
punks and pimps in the dirtiest holes of Paris, and com- 
pare it with the pure simplicity of his religious poetry. 
Think of the Song of Songs which is Solomon’s and the 
ancient pagan erotic rites in the holy temples. Remem- 
ber the Eros of the brothels and the Eros of the sacred 
mysteries. Recall the Rosicrucian significance of the 
phallus, and its cryptic perpetuation in the cross and 
the church steeple. In the middle ages, do not forget, 
the Madonna was both the Virgin Mother of Christ 


[195] 


Peter Whiffle 


and the patron of thieves, strumpets, and murderers. 
Far surpassing all other conceivable worldly pleasures 
is the boon promised by the gratification of the sensual 
appetite ; faith promises a bliss that will endure for ever. 
In either case the mind is conscious of the enormous im- 
portance of the object to be obtained. Machen achieves 
the soaring ecstasy of Keats’s Ode on a Grecian Urn or 
Shelley’s To a Skylark, and yet he seldom writes of cool, 
clean, beautiful things.Was ever a more malignantly 
depraved story written than The White People (which 
it might be profitable to compare with Henry James's 
The Turn of Screw), the story of a child who stumbles 
upon the performance of the horrid, supernatural rites 
of a forgotten race and the consequences of the discoy- 
ery? Yet, Machen’s genius burns so deep, his power is 
so wondrous, that the angels of Benozzo Gozzoli him- 
self do not shine with more refulgent splendour than 
the outlines of this erotic tale, a tale which it would 
have been easy to vulgarize, which Blackwood, nay Poe 
himself, would have vulgarized, which Laforgue would 
have made grotesque or fantastic, which Baudelaire 
would have made poetic but obscene. But Machen’s 
grace, his rare, ecstatic grace, is perpetual and unswery- 
ing. He creates his rhythmic circles without a break, the 
skies open to the reader, and the Lord, Jesus Christ, 
appears on a cloud, or Buddha sits placidly on his lotus. 
Even his name is mystic, for, according to the Arbatel 
of Magic, Machen is the name of the fourth heaven. 


[196] 


Hits Lufe and W orks 


Machen does not often write of white magic; he is a 
negromancer ; the baneful, the baleful, the horrendous 
are his subjects. With Baudelaire, he might pray, Evil 
be thou my good! Consider the theme of The Great 
God Pan, a psychic experiment, operation, if you will, 
on a pure young girl, and its consequences. Again a 
theme which another writer, any other writer, would 
have cheapened, filled in with sordid detail, described 
to the last black mass. But Machen knows better. He 
knows so much, indeed, that he is able to say nothing. 
He keeps the thaumaturgic secrets as the alchemists 
were bidden to do. Instead of raising the veil, he drops 
it.. Instead of revealing, he conceals. The reader may 
imagine as much as he likes, or as much as he can, for 
nothing is said, but he rises from a reading of one of 
these books with a sense of exaltation, an awareness 
that he has tasted the waters of the Fountain of Beauty. 
There is, indeed, sometimes, in relation to this writer, a 
feeling ' that he is truly inspired, that he is writing auto- 
matically of the eternal mysteries, that the hand which 
holds the pen is that of a blind genius, and yet.... 

More straightforward good English prose, limpid nar- 
rative, I am not yet acquainted with. What a teller of 
stories! This gift, tentatively displayed in The Chroni- 
cle of Clemendy, which purports to be a translation 
from an old manuscript—Machen has really been the 
translator of the Heptamaron, Béroalde de Verville’s 


1 A feeling in which he encourages belief in his preface to a new edition of 


The Great God Pan; 1916. 
[197] 


Peter Whiffle 


Moyen de Parvenir, and the Memoirs of Casanova— — 
flowered in The Three Impostors, nouvelles in the man- 
ner of the old Arabian authors. This work is not so 
well-known as The Dynamiter, which it somewhat re- 
sembles, but it deserves to be. Through it threads the 
theme, that of nearly all his tales, of the disintegration 
of a soul through an encounter with the mysteries which 
we are forbidden to know, the Sabbatic revels, the two- 
horned goat, alchemy, devil-worship, and the eternal 
and indescribable symbols. The problem is always the 
same, that of facing the great God Pan and the danger 
that lurks for the man who dares the facing. 

And one wonders, Peter continued, his eyes dilating 
with an expression which may have been either intense 
curiosity or horror, one wonders what price Machen 
himself has paid to learn his secret of how to keep the 
secrets ! He must have encountered this horror himself 
and yet he lives to ask the riddle in flowing prose ! What 
has it cost him to learn the answer? Popularity? Per- 
haps, for he is an obscure reporter on a London news- 
paper and he drinks beer! That is all any Englishman 
I have asked can tell me about him. Nobody reads his 
books ; nobody has read them... except the few who 
see and feel, and John Masefield is one of these. This 
master of English prose, this hierophant, who knows all 
the secrets and keeps them, this delver in forgotten lore, 
this wise poet who uplifts and inspires us, is an humble 
journalist and he drinks beer! 


198) 


HOUSES ON THE SOUTH SIDE OF STUYVESANT SQUARE 
trom a photograph by Mortimer Offner 


His Life and Works 


Peter paused and looked at me, possibly for corrobo- 
ration, but what could I say? I had never, until then, 
touched upon Machen, although I remembered that 
Mina Loy had included him in her catalogue of protes- 
tants in the symposium at the Villa Allegra. Later, when 
I sought his books, I found them more difficult to arrive 
at than those of any of his contemporaries and today, 
thanks to the fame he has achieved through his inven- 
tion of the mystic story of The Bowmen, the tale of the 
Angels at Mons, a story which was credited as true, 
for returning soldiers swore that they had really seen 
these angels who had led them into battle, thus arous- 
ing the inventive pride of the author, who published a 
preface to prove that the incident had never occurred 
except in his own brain, his early books command fan- 
tastic prices. Eight or nine pounds is asked for The 
Chronicle of Clemendy and forty or fifty pounds for 
his translation of Casanova. But on that day I said 
little about the matter, because I had nothing to 
say. ae 
_ Now we were walking and presently stopped before 
Peter’s door, a house on the south side of Stuyvesant 
Square, conveniently near, Peter observed, in sardonic 
reference to Marinettis millennium, the Lying-in-Hos- 
pital. He unlocked the door and we entered. The hall 
was painted black and was entirely devoid of furniture. 
A lamp, depending on an iron chain from the ceiling, 
shed but a feeble glow, for it was enclosed in a globe 


[199] 


Peter Whiffle 


of prelatial purple glass. We passed on to a chamber 
in which purple velvet curtains were caught back by 
heavy silver ropes, exposing at symmetrical intervals, 
the black walls, on which there were several pictures: 
Martin Schongauer’s copperplate engraving of The 
Temptation of Saint Anthony, in which the most 
obscene and foulest of fiends tear and pull and bite 
the patient and kindly old man; Lucas Cranach’s wood- 
cut of the same subject, more fantastic but less terrify- 
ing ; two or three of Goya’s Caprichos ; Félicien Rops’s 
Le Vice Supréme, in which a skeleton in evening dress, 
holding his head in the curve of his elbow, chapeau 
claque in hand, opens wide an upright coffin to permit 
the emergence of a female skeleton in a fashionable 
robe ; black ravens flit across the sky ; Aubrey Beards- 
ley’s Messalina ; Pieter Bruegel’s allegorical copperplate 
of Lust, crammed with loathsome details ; and William 
Blake’s picture of Plague, in which a gigantic hideous 
form, pale-green with the slime of stagnant pools, reek- 
ing with vegetable decays and gangrene, the face livid 
with the motley tints of pallor and putrescence, strides 
onward with extended arms, like a sower sowing his 
seeds, only the germs of his rancid harvest are not cast 
from his hands but drip from his fusty fingers. The car- 
pet was black and in the very centre of the room was 
a huge silver table, fantastically carved, the top 
upheld by four basilisk caryatides. On this table stood 
a huge egg, round which was coiled a serpent, the whole 


[200] 


CAPRICHO BY GOYA 


His Life and Works 


fashioned from malachite, and a small cornelian casket, 
engraved in cuneiform characters. There were no win- 
dows in the room, and apparently no doors, for even 
the opening through which we had entered had disap- 
peared, but the chamber was pleasantly lighted with a 
lambent glow, the origin of which it was impossible to 
discover, for no lamps were visible. In one corner, I 
noted a cabinet of ebony on the top of which perched 
an enormous black, short-haired cat, with yellow eyes, 
which, at first, indeed, until the animal made a slight 
movement, I took to be an objet d’art. Then Peter 
called, Lou Matagot, and with one magnificent bound, 
the creature landed on the silver table and arched his 
glossy back. Then he sharpened his claws and stretched 
his joints by the aid of the casket scratched with the 
cuneiform symbols. 

~ Lou Matagot, Peter explained, signifies the Cat of 
Dreams, the Cat of the Sorcerers, in the Provencal 
dialect. 

There were a few chairs, strangely modern, Ballet 
Russe chairs, upholstered in magenta and green and 
orange brocades in which were woven circles and cres- 
cents and stars of gold and silver, but Peter and I seated 
ourselves at one end of the room on a high purple couch, 
a sort of throne, piled with silver and black cushions, on 
which was worked in green threads an emblem, which 
Peter explained was the character of Mersilde, a fiend 
who has the power to transport you wherever you wish 


[201] 


Peter Whiffle 


to go. Now, he pulled a silver rope which hung from 
the ceiling, the lights flashed off and on again, and | 
observed that we were no longer alone. A little black 
page boy in a rose doublet, with baggy silver trousers, 
and a turban of scarlet silk, surmounted by heron’s 
plumes, sparkling with carbuncles, stood before us. He 
had apparently popped out of the floor like the harle- 
quin in an English pantomime. At a sign from Peter, he 
pressed a button in the wall, a little cupboard opened, 
and he extracted a bottle of amber crystal, half-full of 
a clear green liquid, and two amber crystal glasses with 
iridescent flanges. 

I am striving to discover the secrets, said Peter, as 
we sipped the liqueur, the taste of which was both pun- 
gent and bitter. 

Not in this room! I gasped. Unless you mean the 
secrets of Paul Poiret and Léon Bakst. 

No, he laughed, as the cat leaped to his shoulder and 
began to purr loudly, not in this room. This is my re- 
ception-room where I receive nobody. You are the first 
person, with the exception of Hadji, to enter this house 
since I have remodelled it but, he continued reflectively, 
I have a fancy that the bright fiends of hell, the beauti- 
ful yellow and blue devils, will like this room, when I 
call them forth to do my bidding. 

Again he warned me, Not one word to Edith, do you 
understand ? Not one word. I must be alone. I have told 
you and only you. I must work in peace and that I 


[202] 


= we 


Fis Life and Works 


cannot do if I am interrupted. This room is my relief. 
It amuses me to sit here, but it is not my laboratory. 
Come, it is time to show you. Besides, I have my 
reasons. ... 

We did not rise. The lights were again mysteriously 
extinguished and I felt that the couch on which we sat 
was moving. The sensation was pleasant, like taking a 
ride on a magic carpet or a taktrevan. In a few seconds, 
when light appeared again, instead of a wall behind us 
we sat with a wall before us. Facing about, I perceived 
that we were in another chamber, a chamber that would 
have pleased Doctor Faust, for it was obviously the lab- 
oratory of an alchemist. Nevertheless, I noted at once a 
certain theatrical air in the arrangement. 

This, I said, seems more suitable for the performances 
of Herrmann the Great or Houdini than the experiments 
of Paracelsus. 

Peter grinned. It was clear that he was taking a child- 
ish delight in the entertainment. 

It cs fun to do this with you. I’ve had no one but the 
black boy and the cat. There are moments when I think 
I would like to bring Edith here, but she would spoil it 
by getting tired of it, or else she would like it too much 
and want to come every day and bring others with her 
to see the show. Well, look around. ‘3 

I followed his advice. It was the conventional al- 
chemist’s retreat. There were stuffed owls and mum- 
mies and astrolabes. Herbs and bones were suspended 


[203] 


Peter Whiffle 


from the ceiling. Skulls grinned from the tops of cabi- 
nets. There were rows and rows of ancient books, many 
of them bound in sheepskin or vellum, in a case against 
one wall. A few larger volumes, with brass or iron clasps, 
reposed on a table. Lou Matagot, who had been carried 
into the room with us, presently stretched his great, 
black, glossy length over the top of one of these. There 
were cauldrons, retorts, crucibles, rows of bottles, a fire, 
with bellows, and a clepsydra, or water-clock, which 
seemed to be running. There was an Arcula Mystica, or 
demoniac telephone, resembling a liqueur-stand. Peter 
explained that possessors of this instrument might 
communicate with each other, over whatever distance. 
There were cabinets, on the shelves of which lay amu- 
lets and talismans and periapts, carved from obsidian 
or fashioned of blue or green faience, the surfaces of 
which were elaborately scratched with hermetic char- 
acters, and symplegmata with their curious confusion 
of the different parts of different beasts. There were 
aspergills, and ivory pyxes, stolen, perhaps, from some 
holy place, and now consecrated to evil uses. There were 
stuffed serpents and divining rods of hazel. There were 
scrolls of parchment, tied with vermilion cord. In fact, 
there was everything in this room that David Belasco 
would provide for a similar scene on the stage. 

Here, said Peter, I study the Book of the Dead, 
hierograms, rhabdomancy, oneiromancy, hippomancy, 
margaritomancy, parthenomancy, gyromancy, spoda- 


[204] 


His Life and Works 


nomancy, ichthyomancy, kephalonomancy, lampodo- 
mancy, sycomancy, angelology, pneumatology, goety, 
eschatology, cartomancy, aleuromancy, alphitomancy, 
anthropomancy, axinomancy, which is performed by 
applying an agate to a red-hot ax, arithmomancy, or 
divination by numbers, alectoromantia, in which I lay 
out the letters of the alphabet and grains of wheat in 
spaces drawn in a circle and permit a cock to select 
grains corresponding to letters, belomancy, divination 
by arrows, ceroscopy, cleidomancy, astragalomancy, 
amniomancy, cleromancy, divination performed by 
throwing dice and observing the marks which turn 
up, cledonism, coscinomancy, capnomancy, divina- 
tion by smoke, captoptromancy, chiromancy, dac- 
tyliomancy, performed with a ring, extispicium, or 
divination by entrails, gastromancy, geomancy, divi- 
nation by earth, hydromancy, divination by water, and 
pyromancy and zromancy, divination by fire and air, 
onomancy, divination by the letters of a name, ony- 
chomancy, which is concerned with fingernails, ornitho- 
mancy, which deals with birds, and chilomancy, which 
deals with keys, lithomancy, eychnomancy, ooscopy, 
keraunoscopia, bibliomancy, myomancy, pan-psychism, 
metempsychosis, the Martinists, the Kabbalists, the 
Diabolists, the Palladists, the Rosicrucians, the Luci- 
ferians, the Umbilicamini, all the nocuous, demonologi- 
cal, and pneumatic learning, including transcendental 
sensualism. At present, I am experimenting with white 


[205] 


Peter Whiffle 


mice. I dip their feet in red ink and permit them to 
make scrawls on a certain curious chart. 


I have dabbled in drugs, for you know that the old 


Greek priests, the modern seers, and the medieval pyth- _ 


onesses, all have resorted to drugs to assist them to see 
visions. The narcotic or anesthetic fumes, rising from 
the tripods, lulled the old Greek hierophants and sooth- 
sayers into a sympathetic frame of mind. First, I experi- 
mented with Napellus, for I had read that Napellus 
caused one’s mental processes to be transferred from 
the brain to the pit of the stomach. There exists an exact 
description of the effects of this drug on an adept, one 
Baptista Van Helmont, which I will read you. 

Peter, here, went to the shelves, and after a little 
hesitation, pulled out an old brown volume. He turned 
over the pages for a few seconds and then began to 
read : Once, when I had prepared the root (of Napellus) 
in a rough manner, I tasted it with the tongue : although 
I had swallowed nothing, and had spit out a good deal 
of the juice, yet I felt as if my skull was being com- 
pressed by a string. Several household matters sug- 
gested themselves and I went about the house and 
attended to them. At last, I experienced what I had 
never felt before. It seemed to me that I neither thought 
nor understood, and as if I had none of the usual ideas 
in my head ; but I felt, with astonishment, clearly and 
distinctly, that all these functions were taking place at 


the pit of the stomach: I felt this clearly and perfectly, 


[206] 


His Lufe and Works 


and observed with the greatest attention that, although 
I felt movement and sensation spreading themselves 
over the whole body, yet that the whole power of 
thought was really and unmistakably situated in the 
pit of the stomach, always excepting a sensation that 
the soul was in the brain as a governing force. The sen- 
sation was beyond the power of words to describe. I 
perceived that I thought with greater clearness: there 
was a pleasure in such an intellectual distinctness. It 
was not a fugitive sensation ; it did not take place while 
I slept, dreamed, or was ill, but during perfect con- 
sciousness. I perceived clearly that the head was per- 
fectly dormant as regarded fancy : and I felt not a little 
astonished at the change of position. 

Well, continued Peter, closing the book and regard- 
ing me with great intensity, you will admit that would 
be a sensation worth experiencing. So I tried it... with 
horrible results. Will you believe it when I tell you that 
I became wretchedly ill in that very centre which Van 
Helmont locates as the seat of thought? I suffered from 
the most excruciating pains, which were not entirely 
relieved by an emetic. Indeed, I passed a week or so 
in bed. 

My next experiment, he went on, was made with 
hashish, Cannabis Indica, which I prepared and took 
according to the directions of another adept, who had 
found that the drug produced a kind of demoniac 
and incessant laughter, hearty, Gargantuan laughter, 


[207] 


Peter Whiffle 


and the foreshortening of time and space. He could span 
the distance between London and Paris in a few seconds. 


Furniture and statues assumed a comic attitude; they — 
seemed to move about and become familiar with him. 


He was literally aware of what the Rosny have called 
the semi-humanité des choses. I took the drug, as I 
have said, exactly as he directed, but the effect on me 
was entirely dissimilar. Immediately, I was plunged into 
immoderate melancholy. The sight of any object im- 


measurably depressed me. I also noted that my legs — 


and arms had apparently stretched to an abnormal 
length. I sobbed with despair when I discovered that 
I could scarcely see to the other end of my laboratory, 
it seemed so far away. Mounting the stairs to my bed- 
chamber was equivalent in my mind to climbing the 
Himalayas. Although Hadji afterward assured me that 
I had been under the influence of the drug for only four- 
teen hours, it was more like fourteen years to me, which 
I had passed without sleep. At the end of the experi- 
ment, my nerves revolted under the strain and again I 
was forced to take to my bed, this time for four days. 
My third experiment was made with Peyote beans, 
whose properties are extolled by the American Indians. 
After eating these beans, the red men, who use them 
in the mysteries of their worship, suffer, I have been in- 
formed, from an excruciating nausea, the duration of 
which is prolonged. After the nausea has passed its 
course, a series of visions is vouchsafed the experi- 


[208] 


i . eee, 


His Life and Works 


menter, these visions extending in a series, on various 
planes, to the mystic number of seven. Under the spell 
of these visions, the adepts vaticinate future events. | 
have wondered sometimes if it were not possible that 
the ancient Egyptians were familiar with the properties 
of these beans, that William Blake was under their in- 
fluence when he drew his mystic plates. 

Be that as it may, I swallowed one bean, which I had 
been informed would be sufficient to give me the de- 
sired effect, and without interval, I was carried at once 
on to the plane of the visions, which concentrated them- 
selves into one gigantic phantasm. Have you ever seen 
Jacques Callot’s copperplate engraving of The Tempta- 
tion of Saint Anthony? The hideous collection of tera- 
tological creatures, half-insect, half-microbe, of gigantic 
size, exposed in that picture, swarmed about me, men- 
acing me with their horrid beaks, their talons and 
claws, their evil antennz. Further cohorts of malignant 
monstrosities without bones lounged about the room 
and sprawled against my body, rubbing their flabby, 
slimy, oozing folds against my legs. After a few more 
stercoraceous manceuvres, some of which I should hesi- 
tate to describe, even to you, the monsters began to 
breathe forth liquid fire, and the pain resulting from 
the touch of these tongues of flame finally awoke me. 
I was violently ill, and my illness developed in the 
seven stages traditionally allotted to the visions. First, 
extreme nausea, which lasted for two days, second, a 


[209] 


E- 


Peter Whiffle 


raging fever, third, a procession of green eruptions on 
my legs, fourth, terrific pains in the region of my ab- 
domen, fifth, dizziness, sixth, inability to command any 
of my muscles, and seventh, a prolonged period of sleep, 
which lasted for forty-eight hours. N evertheless, I came 
nearer to success in this experiment than in any other. 

My fourth experiment was made with cocaine, which 
I procured from a little Italian boy, about eleven years 
old, who was acting in a Bowery barroom as agent for 
his father. Laying the white crystals on the blade of an 
ivory paper-cutter, I sniffed as I had observed the snow- 
birds themselves sniff. Immediately, my mind became 
clear to an extent that it had never been clear before. 
My intellect became as sharp as a knife, as keen as the 
slash of a whip, as vibrant as an E string. I seemed to 
have a power of understanding which I had never before 
approached, not only of understanding but also of hear- 
ing, for I caught the conversation of men talking in an 
ordinary tone of voice out in the Square. Also, I became 
abnormally active, nervous, and intense. I rushed from 
the room, without reason or purpose, with a kind of 
energy which seemed deathless, so strong was its power. 
When, however, I endeavoured to make notes, for my 
mind seethed with ideas, I was unable to do so. I 
scratched some characters on paper, to be sure, but I 
found them wholly undecipherable the next day. They 
were not in English or in any language known to me. 
Finally, I ran out of the house and, encountering, on 


[210] 


His Life and Works 


Second Avenue, a fancy woman of the Jewish persua- 
sion, I accompanied her to her cubicle, and permitted 
her to be the subsidiary hierophant in the mystic rites 
I then performed. That, concluded Peter, with a some- 
what sorry smile, was the last of my experiments with 
drugs. 

This story and, indeed, this whole phase, amused me 
enormously. An ambition which had persuaded its pos- 
sessor that in order to become the American Arthur 
Machen, he must first become an adept in demonology 
seemed to me to be the culmination of Peter’s fantastic 
life, which, indeed, it was. But I said little. As usual, I 
let him talk and I listened. There seemed, however, to 
be a period here and I took occasion to look over the 
books, asking him first if he had any objection to my 
copying off some of the titles, as I felt that it might be 
possible that some day I should want to make some 
researches in this esoteric realm. He bade me do what I 
liked and, advancing towards the book-shelves with the 
small note-book which I carried with me at that period 
in order to set down fleeting thoughts as they came, I 
transferred some of the titles therein. 

I stopped at last, not from lack of patience on my 
part, but from observing the impatience of Peter, who 
obviously had a good deal more to say. On my turning, 
indeed, he began at once. 

I have made, he said, some tentative minor experi- 
ments but my final experiments are yet to be attempted. 


[211] 


Peter Whiffle 


Nevertheless, I have found a springboard from which 
to leap into my romance. Let me read you a few pages 
of Arthur Waite’s somewhat ironic summary of Dr. 
Bataille’s Le Diable au XIX Siécle. Naturally I shall 
treat the subject more seriously, but what atmosphere, 
what a gorgeous milieu in which to plunge the reader 
when he shall open my book! ; 

Peter now took from the shelves a small black vol- 
ume, lettered in red, and turned over the leaves. First, 
he said, I shall read you some of the Doctor’s experi- 
ences in Pondicherry, and he began: 

Through the greenery of a garden, the gloom of a 
well, and the entanglement of certain stairways, they 
entered a great dismantled temple, devoted to the serv- 
ice of Brahma, under the unimpressive diminutive of 
Lucif. The infernal sanctuary had a statue of Bapho- 
met, identical with that in Ceylon, and the ill-venti- 
lated place reeked with a horrible putrescence. Its 
noisome condition was mainly owing to the presence 
of various fakirs, who, though still alive, were in ad- 
vanced stages of putrefaction. Most people are sup- 
posed to go easily and pleasantly to the devil, but 
these elected to do so by way of a charnel-house as- 
ceticism, and an elaborate system of self-torture. Some 
were suspended from the ceiling by a rope tied to their — 
arms, some embedded in plaster, some stiffened in a 
circle, some permanently distorted into the shape of the 
letter S; some were head downwards, some in a cruci- 


[212] 


His Life and Works 


form position. A native Grand Master explained that 
they had postured for years in this manner, and one of 
them for a quarter of century. 

Fr. * . John Campbell proceeded to harangue the as- 
sembly in Ourdou-zaban, but the doctor comprehended 
completely, and reports the substance of his speech, 
which was violently anti-Catholic in its nature, and 
especially directed against missionaries. This finished, 
they proceeded to the evocation of Baal-Zeboub, at first 
by the Conjuration of the Four, but no fiend appeared. 
The operation was repeated ineffectually a second time, 
and John Campbell determined upon the Grand Rite, 
which began by each person spinning on his own axis, 
and in this manner circumambulating the temple, in 
procession. Whenever they passed an embedded fakir, 
they obtained an incantation from his lips, but still 
Baal-Zeboub failed. Thereupon, the native Grand Mas- 
ter suggested that the evocation should be performed 
by the holiest of all fakirs, who was produced from a 
cupboard more fetid than the temple itself, and proved 
to be in the following condition :—(a) face eaten by 
rats ; (b) one bleeding eye hanging down by his mouth ; 
(c) legs covered with gangrene, ulcers, and rottenness ; 
(d) expression peaceful and happy. 

Entreated to call on Baal-Zeboub, each time he 
opened his mouth his eye fell into it; however, he 
continued the invocation, but no Baal-Zeboub mani- 
fested. A tripod of burning coals was next obtained, 


[213] 


Peter Whiffle 


and a woman, summoned for this purpose, plunged her 
arm into the flames, inhaling with great delight the 
odour of her roasting flesh. Result, né/. Then a white 
goat was produced, placed upon the altar of Baphomet, 
set alight, hideously tortured, cut open, and its entrails 
torn out by the native Grand Master, who spread them 
on the steps, uttering abominable blasphemies against 
Adonai. This having also failed, great stones were raised 
from the floor, a nameless stench ascended, and a large 
consignment of living fakirs, eaten to the bone by worms 
and falling to pieces in every direction, were dragged 
out from among a number of skeletons, while serpents, 
giant spiders, and toads swarmed from all parts. The 
Grand Master seized one of the fakirs and cut his throat 
upon the altar, chanting the satanic liturgy amidst im- 
precations, curses, a chaos of voices, and the last agonies 
of the goat. The blood spirted forth upon the assistants, 
and the Grand Master sprinkled the Baphomet. A final 
howl of invocation resulted in complete failure, where- 
upon it was decided that Baal-Zeboub had business 
elsewhere. The doctor departed from the ceremony and 
kept his bed for eight-and-forty hours. 

Peter looked up from the book in his hand with an 
expression of ironic exultation which was very quaint. 

What do you think of that? he asked. 

Very pretty, I ventured. 

Very strong for the beginning of my romance! he 
cried. You see, I shall commence with this failure and 


[214] 


ae eo _— 


His Life and Works 


work up gradually to the final brilliant success. Let me 
introduce you to another passage from Waite’s sum- 
mary of Dr. Bataille’s masterpiece: He turned a few 
more leaves and presently was reading again: 

A select company of initiates proceeded in hired car- 
riages through the desolation of Dappah, under the 
convoy of the initiated coachmen, for the operation of 
a great satanic solemnity. At an easy distance from the 
city is the Sheol of the native Indians, and hard by the 
latter place there is a mountain 500 feet high and 2000 
long on the summit of which seven temples are erected, 
communicating one with another by subterranean pas- 
sages in the rock. The total absence of pagodas makes 
it evident that these temples are devoted to the worship 
of Satan; they form a gigantic triangle superposed on 
the vast plateau, at the base of which the party de- 
scended from their conveyances, and were met by a 
native with an accommodating knowledge of French. 
Upon exchanging the Sign of Lucifer, he conducted 
them to a hole in the rock, which gave upon a narrow 
passage guarded by a line of Sikhs with drawn swords, 
prepared to massacre anybody, and leading to the vesti- 
bule of the first temple, which was filled with a miscel- 
laneous concourse of Adepts. In the first temple, which 
was provided with the inevitable statue of Baphomet, 
but was withal bare and meagrely illuminated, the doc- 
tor was destined to pass through his promised ordeal 
for which he was stripped to the skin, and placed in the 


[215] 


Peter Whiffle 


centre of the assembly, and at a given signal one thou- 
sand odd venomous cobra de capellos were produced 
from holes in the wall and encouraged to fold him in 
their embraces, while the music of flute-playing fakirs 
alone intervened to prevent his instant death. He 
passed through this trying encounter with a valour 
which amazed himself, persisted in prolonging the cere- 
mony, and otherwise proved himself a man of such ex- 
traordinary metal that he earned universal respect. 
From the Sanctuary of the Serpents, the company 
then proceeded into the second temple or the Sanc- 
tuary of the Phcenix. 

The second temple was brilliantly illuminated and 
ablaze with millions of precious stones wrested by the 
wicked English from innumerable conquered Rajahs; 
it had garlands of diamonds, festoons of rubies, vast 
images of solid silver, and a gigantic Phoenix in red gold 
more solid than the silver. There was an altar beneath 
the Phoenix, and a male and female ape were composed 
on the altar steps, while the Grand Master proceeded 
to the celebration of a black mass, which was followed 
by an amazing marriage of the two engaging animals, 
and the sacrifice of a lamb brought alive into the tem- 
ple, bleating piteously, with nails driven through its 
feet. | 

The third temple was consecrated to the Mother of 
fallen women, who, in memory of the adventure of the 
apple, has a place in the calendar of Lucifer; the pro- 


[216] 


His Life and Works 


ceedings consisted of a dialogue between the Grand 
Master and the Vestal. 

The fourth temple was a Rosicrucian Sanctuary, hav- 
ing an open sepulchre, from which blue flames continu- 
ally emanated ; there was a platform in the midst of the 
temple designed for the accommodation of more Indian 
Vestals, one of whom it was proposed should evaporate 
into thin air, after which a fakir would be transformed 
before the company into a living mummy and be in- 
terred for a space of three years. The fakir introduced 
his performance by suspension in mid-air. . 

The fifth temple was consecrated to the Pelican. 

The sixth temple was that of the Future and was de- 
voted to divinations, the oracles being given by a Vestal 
in a hypnotic condition, seated over a burning brazier. 

The assembly now thoughtfully repaired to the sev- 
enth temple, which, being sacred to Fire, was equipped 
with a vast central furnace surmounted by a chimney 
and containing a gigantic statue of Baphomet ; in spite 
of the intolerable heat pervading the entire chamber, 
this idol contrived to preserve its outlines and to glow 
without pulverizing. A ceremony of an impressive na- 
ture occurred in this apartment; a wild cat, which 
strayed in through the open window, was regarded 
as the appearance of a soul in transmigration, and in 
spite of its piteous protests, was passed through the fire 
to Baal. 

And now the crowning function, the Magnum Opus 


[217] 


Peter Whiffle 


of the mystery, must take place in the Sheol of Dap- 
pah ; a long procession filed from the mountain temples 
to the charnel-house of the open plain; the night was 
dark, the moon had vanished in dismay, black clouds 
scudded across the heavens, a feverish rain fell slowly 
at intervals, and the ground was dimly lighted by the 
phosphorescence of the general putrefaction. The Adepts 
stumbled over dead bodies, disturbing rats and vultures, 
and proceeded to the formation of the magic chain, sit- 
ting in a vast circle, every Adept embracing his particu- 
lar corpse. 

Well? asked Peter, closing the book. Well? 

Kolossal! I shouted in German. | 

Isn’t it, and there’s ever so much more, wonderful 
stories, incantations and evocations in the works of Ar- 
thur Waite, Moncure Daniel Conway, Alfred Maury, 
J. Collin de Plancy, Francois Lenormant, Alphonse Gal- 
lais, the Abbé de Montfaucon de Villars, J. G. Bourgeat, 
and William Godwin. Have you ever heard of The Black 
Pullet or The Queen of The Hairy Flies? 

This time, Carl; he spoke with great intensity and 
earnestness, I am on the right track. I am convinced 
that to give a work of this character a proper back- 
ground one must know a great deal more than one tells. 
That, in fact, is the secret of all fine literature, the 
secret of all great art, that it conceals and suggests. 
The edges, of course, are rounded: it is not a rough 
and obvious concealment. You cannot begin not to tell] 


[218] 


His Life and Works 


until you know more than you are willing to impart. 
These books have given me a good deal, but I must go 
farther—as I am convinced that Machen has gone far- 
ther. I am going through with it... all through with 
it, searching out the secrets of life and death, a few of 
which I have discovered already, but I have yet to make 
the great test. And when I know what I shall find out, 
I shall begin to write... but I shall tell nothing. 

Peter was flaming with enthusiasm again. It wasn’t 
necessary for me to speak. He required an audience, not 
an interlocutor. 

Why not now? he demanded suddenly. Why not now 
and here, with you? 

What do you mean? I queried. 

Why not make the great experiment now? I am pre- 
pared and the moon and the planets are favourable. 
Are you willing to go through with it? I must warn you 
that you will never be the same again. You may even 
lose your life. 

What will happen? I asked. 

The earth will rock. A storm will probably follow, 
thunder and lightning, balls of fire, thunderbolts, show- 
ers of feathers, and then we shall dissolve into . . . into 
a putrid mass, the agamous mass from which we origi- 
nated, neither male nor female, with only a glowing eye, 
a great eye, radiating intelligence out of its midst. Then 
Astaroth himself (I shall call Astaroth, because his in- 
feriors in the descending hierarchy, Sargatanas and 


[219] 


Peter Whiffle 


Nebiros, dwell in America) will appear, in one of his 
forms, perhaps refulgent and beautiful, perhaps ugly 
and tortured and hideously deformed, perhaps black or 
yellow or blue, but assuredly not white or green. He 
may be entirely covered with hair or entirely covered 
with eyes, or he may be eyeless. Mayhap, he will be lean 
and proud and sad, and he will probably limp, for you 
know he is lame. His feet will be cloven, he will wear a 


goat's beard, and you may distinguish him further by 


the cock’s feather and the ox’s tail. Or, perhaps, he may 
arrive in the shape of some monster: the fierce flying 
hydra called the Ouranabad, the Rakshe who eats drag- 
ons and snakes, the Soham, with the body of a scarlet 
griffin and the head of a four-eyed horse, the Syl, a 
basilisk with a human face.... But, however he may 
appear, in his presence you will learn the last secrets 
of all the worlds. 

And then what will happen? 

Then I shall speak the magic formula and we shall re- 
sume our proper shapes but from that moment on we 
shall hover—literally, not pathologically—between life 
and death. We shall know everything. ... and eventu- 
ally we shall pay the price... . : 

Like Faust? 

Like Faust... that is, if we are not clever enough 
to outwit the demon. Those who practise devilments 
usually find some means to circumvent the devil. 

I appeared to ponder. 


[220] 


Hts Life and Works 


I am willing to go through with it, I said at last. 

Good! I knew you would be. Let’s get to work at 
once | 

He lifted the most ponderous volume in the labora- 
tory from the floor to the top of an old walnut refectory 
table. The book was bound in musty yellow vellum, 
clasped with iron, and the foxed leaves were fashioned 
from parchment made from the skin of virgin camels. 
As he opened it, I saw that the pages were inscribed 
with cabalistic characters and symbols, illuminated in 
colours, none of which I could decipher. Lou Matagot 
jumped on to the table and sat on the leaves at the top 
of the book, forming a paper weight. He sat with his 
back to Peter and his long, black tail played nervously 
up and down the centre of the volume. 

Peter now drew a circle with a radius of twelve or 
thirteen feet around us, inscribing within its circumfer- 
ence certain characters and pentacles. Then he plunged 
a dagger through what I recognized to be a sacred wafer, 
which he told me had been stolen from a church at mid- 
night, at the same time, muttering what, from the tone 
of his voice, I took to be blasphemous imprecations, al- 
though the language he used was unfamiliar to me. Next 
he arranged a copper chafing-dish over a blue flame and 
began to stir the ingredients, esoteric powders and crys- 
tals of bright colours. Now he lovingly lifted a crystal 
viol, filled with a purple liquid, and poured the contents 
into a porcelain bowl. Instantly, there was a faint de- 


[221] 


Peter Whiffle 


tonation and a thick cloud of violet vapour mounted 
spirally to the ceiling. All the time, occasionally refer- 
ring to the grimoire on the table, and employing cer- 
tain unmentionable symbolic objects in the manner 
prescribed, he muttered incantations in the unknown 
tongue. The room swam with odours and mists, violet — 
clouds and opopanax fogs. So far, the invocation was 
pretty and amusing but it resembled the arcane rites 
of Paul Iribe more than those of Hermes Trismegistus. 
Now Peter pulled three black hairs from the cat’s” 
tail, which Lou Matagot delivered with a yow!l of rage, 
springing at the same time from the table to the top of 
the cabinet, whence he regarded us through the mists 
and vapours, with his evil yellow eyes. The hairs went 
into the chafing-dish and a new aroma filled the room. 
The claws of an owl, the flower of the moly, and the 
powder of vipers followed and then Peter opened a long 
flat box which nearly covered one end of the huge table, 
and a nest of serpents, with bellies of rich turquoise 
blue and backs of tawny yellow, marked with black 
zigzags, reared their wicked heads. He called them by 
name and they responded by waving their heads rhyth- 
mically. I began to grow alarmed and dizzy. Vade retro, 
Satanas! was on tip of my tongue. For a few seconds, 
I think, I must have fainted. When I revived, I still 
heard the chanting of the incantation and the sound 
of tinkling bells. The serpents’ heads still waved jn 
rhythm and their bodies, yellow and turquoise blue, 


[222] 


His Life and Works 


were elongated in the air until they appeared to be bal- 
ancing on the tips of their tails. The eyes of Lou Mata- 
got glared maliciously through the thick vapours and 
the cat howled with rage or terror. 

Now! cried Peter, for the first time in English. Now! 

My nails dug holes in the palms of my perspiring 
hands. Peter renewed his nocuous muttering and cast- 
ing the wafer, transfixed by the dagger, into the porce- 
lain bowl containing the violet fluid, he poured the 
whole mixture into the copper chafing-dish. 

There was a terrific explosion. 


[223] 


Chapter XI 


I left the hospital before Peter. My injuries, indeed, 
were of so slight a nature that I was confined only a 
few days, while his were so serious that the physicians 
despaired of his life, and he was forced to keep to his 
bed for several months. F ollowing my early discharge, 
I made daily visits of inquiry to the hospital but it was 
not until June, 1914, that I was assured that he would 
recover. With this good news, came a certain sense of 
relief, and I made plans for another voyage to Europe. 
The incidents of that voyage—I was in Paris at the be- 
ginning of the war—are of sufficient interest so that I 
may recount them in another place, but they bear no 
relationship to the present narrative. 

Subsequent to his recovery, I have learned since from 
the physician who attended him during his protracted 
illness, Peter returned to Toledo with his mother. It is 
probable that he made further literary experiments. It 
has even occurred to me that the pivot of his being, the 
explanation for his whole course of action may have 
escaped me. Although, from the hour of our first meet- 
ing, my interest in and my affection for Peter were 


deep, assuredly I never imagined that I should be writ- _ 


ing down the history of his life. For the greater part of 
[224] 


His Life and Works 


the term of our friendship, indeed, I was a writer only 
in a very modest sense. I was not on the lookout for 
the kind of “‘copy”’ his affairs and ideas offered, for at 
this period I was a reporter of music and the drama. 
Even later, when I began to set down my thoughts in 
what is euphemistically called a more permanent form, 
the notion of using Peter as a subject never presented 
itself to me, and if he had asked me to do so during his 
lifetime, urging me to put aside a pile of unfinished 
work in his behalf, the request would have astounded 
me. I made, therefore, no special effort to ferret out his 
secrets. When it was convenient for both of us we met 
and, largely by accident, I was a silent witness of three 
of his literary experiments. How many others he may 
have made, I do not know. It is possible that at some 
time or other he may have been inspired by the reli- 
gious school, the Tolstoy theory of art, or he may have 
followed the sensuous lead of Gozzoli and Debussy, art- 
ists whose work intrigued him enormously, or in an- 
other zsthetic avatar, he may have believed that true 
art is degrading or coldly classic. There is even the pos- 
sibility, by no means remote, that he may have fallen 
under the influence of the small-town and psychanalytic 
schools. Except in a general way, however, in a conver- 
sation which I shall record at the end of this chapter, 
he never mentioned further experiments. It is possible 
that others may have evidence bearing on this point. 
Martha Baker might make a good witness, but she died 


[225] 


Peter Whiffle 


in 1911. Mrs. Whiffle knew nothing of any importance 
whatever about her son. Since his death I have interro- 
gated her in vain. She was, indeed, very much aston- 
ished at the little I told her and she will read this book, I 
think, with real amazement. The report of Clara Barnes, 
too, was negligible. Edith Dale has supplied me with a 
few facts which I have inserted where they chrono- 
logically belong. Most of my other friends, Phillip 
Moeller, Alfred Knopf, Edna Kenton, Pitts Sanborn, 
Avery Hopwood, Freddo Sides, Joseph Hergesheimer, 
even my wife, Fania Marinoff, never met Peter. Walter 
Hunter walked up Fifth Avenue with us one day, but 
Peter was unusually silent and after he had left us at 
the corner of Fifty-seventh Street, Walter was not suffi- 
ciently curious to ask any questions concerning him. I 
doubt if Walter could even recall the incident today. I 
have inserted advertisements in the Paris, New York, 
and Toledo newspapers, begging any one with pertinent 
facts or letters in his possession to communicate with 
me, but as yet I have received no replies. I have never 
seen a photograph of my friend and his mother informs 
me that she doubts if he ever sat for one. 

The record, therefore, of Peter’s literary life, at the 
conclusion of this chapter, will be as complete as I can 
make it. I have tried to set down the truth as I saw it, 
leaving out nothing that I remember, even at the dan- 
ger of becoming unnecessarily garrulous and rambling. 
I have written down all I know because, after all, I may 


[226] 


His Life and Works 


have misunderstood or misinterpreted, and some one 
else, with the facts before him, may be better able to 
reconstruct the picture of this strange life. 

Our next meeting occurred in January, 1919, and his 
first remark was, Thank God, you're not shot up! From 
that time, until the day of his death, nearly a year later, 
Peter never mentioned the war to me again, although 
I saw him frequently enough, nor did he speak of his 
writing, save once, on an occasion which shall be re- 
ported in its proper place. 

When we came together for the first time, after the 
long interval—he had just returned to New York from 
Florida—I was surprised at and even shocked by the 
purely physical change, which, to be sure, had a psychi- 
cal significance, for his face had grown more spiritual. 
He had always been slender, but now he was thin, 
almost emaciated. To describe his appearance a little 
later, I might use the word haggard. His coat, which 
once fitted his figure snugly, rather hung from his 
shoulders. There were white patches in the blue-black 
of his hair, deep circles under his eyes, and hollows in 
his cheeks. But his eyes, themselves, seemed to shine 
with a new light, seemed to see something which I could 
not even imagine. He had rid himself of many excres- 
cences and externalities, the purely adscititious quali- 
ties, charming though they might be, which masked 
his personality. He had, indeed, discovered himself, 
although I never knew how clearly until our last con- 


[227] 


Peter Whiffle 


versation. Peter, without appearing to be particularly 
aware of it, had become a mystic. His emancipation had 
come through suffering. He was quieter, less restless, 
less excitable, still enthusiastic, but with more balance, 
more—I do not wish to be misunderstood—irony. He 
had found life very satisfying and very hard, very sweet, 
with something of a bitter after-taste. He seemed al- 
most holy to me, reminding me at times of those as- 
cetic monks who crawl two thousand miles on their 
bellies to worship at some shrine, or of those Hindu 
fakirs who lie in one tortured position for years, their 
bodies slowly consuming, while their souls gain fire. 
That he was ill, very ill, I surmised at once, although, 
like everything else I have noted here, this was an im- 
pression. He made no admissions, never spoke of his 
malady ; indeed, for Peter, he talked astonishingly little 
about himself. He was pathetic and at the same time an 
object for admiration. 

Afterwards, I learned from his mother that he suf- 
fered from an incurable disease, the disease that killed 
him late in 1919. But he never spoke of this to me and 
he never complained, unless his occasional confession 
that he was tired might be construed as a complaint. 

We had fine times together, of a new kind. The tables, 
in a sense, were turned. I had become the writer, how- 
ever humble, and his ambition had not been realized. 
His sympathy with my work, with what I was trying 
to do, which he saw almost immediately, saw, indeed, 


[228] 


His Life and Works 


in the beginning, more clearly than I saw it myself, 
was complete. He was never weary of talking about 
it, at any rate he never showed me that he was weary, 
and naturally this drew us very closely together, for 
an author is fondest of those men who talk the most 
about his work. But this is not the place to publish 
his opinions of me, although some of them were so 
curious and farseeing—they were not all flattering by 
any means—that I shall undoubtedly recur to them in 
my autobiography. Fortunately for me, his sympathy 
grew as my work progressed, and it seemed amazing to 
me later, looking over the book after a period of years, 
that he had found anything pleasant to report of Music 
After the Great War. He had, indeed, seen something in 
it, and when I recalled what he had said it was impos- 
sible to feel that he had overstated the case in the in- 
terests of friendship. He had seen the germ, the root of 
what was to come; he had seen a suggestion of a style, 
undeveloped ideas, which he felt would later be de- 
veloped, as indeed, to a limited extent, they were. His 
plea, to put it concisely, had been for a more personal 
expression. He was always asking me, after this or that 
remark or anecdote in conversation, why I did not write 
it just as I had said it or told it, and it was a great 
pleasure for him to perceive in The Merry-Go-Round 
and In the Garret (of which he read the proofs just 
before his death) some signs of growth in this direction. 

You are becoming freer, he would say. You are loos- 


[229] 


Peter Whiffle 


ening your tongue ; your heart is beating faster. In time 
you may liberate those subconscious ideas which are 
entangled in your very being. It is only your conscious 
self that prevents you from becoming a really interest- 
ing writer. Let that once be as free as the air and the 
other will be free too. You must walk boldly and proudly 
and without fear. You must search the heart ; the mind 
is negligible in literature as in all other forms of art. Try 
to write just as you feel and you will discover that your 
feeling is greater than your knowledge of it. The words 
that appear on the paper will at first seem strange to 
you, almost like hermetic symbols, and it is possible 
that in the course of time you will be able to say so 
much that you yourself will not understand what you 
are writing. Do not be afraid of that. Let the current 
flow freely when you feel that it is the true current that 
is flowing. 

That is the lesson, he continued, that the creative or 
critical artist can learn from the interpreter, the les- 
son of the uses of personality. The great interpreters, 
Rachel, Ristori, Mrs. Siddons, Duse, Bernhardt, Ré- 
jane, Ysaye, Paderewski, and Mary Garden are all big, 
vibrant personalities, that the deeper thing, call it God, 
call it IT, flows through and permeates. You may not 
believe this now, but I know it is true, and you will 
know it yourself some day. And if you cannot release 
your personality, what you write, though it be engraved 
in letters an inch deep on stones weighing many tons, 


[230] 


His Life and Works 


will lie like snow in the street to be melted away by the 
first rain. 

We talked of other writers. Peter drew my attention, 
for instance, to the work of Cunninghame Graham, that 
strange Scotch mystic who turned his back on civiliza- 
tion to write of the pampas, the arid plains of Africa, 
India, and Spain, only to find irony everywhere in every 
work of man. But, observed Peter, he could not hate 
civilization so intensely had he not lived in it. It is all 
very well to kick over the ladder after you have climbed 
it and set foot on the balcony. Like all lovers of the 
simple life, he is very complex. And we discussed James 
Branch Cabell, who, Peter told me, was originally a 
“romantic.” He wrote of knights and ladyes and pal- 
freys with sympathetic picturesqueness. Of late, how- 
ever, continued Peter, he, too, seems to have turned 
over in bed. Romanticism still appears in his work but 
it is undermined by a biting and disturbing irony. He 
asks : Are any of the manifestations of modern civiliza- 
tion worthy of admiration? and like Graham, he seems 
to answer, No. It is possible that the public disregard 
for his earlier and simpler manner may have produced 
this metamorphosis. Many a man has become bitter 
with less reason. Then he spoke of the attributed in- 
fluence of Maurice Hewlett and Anatole France on the 
work of Cabell. Bernard Shaw, said Peter, once lost all 
patience with those critics who insisted that he was a 
son of Ibsen and Neitzsche and asserted that it was 


[231] 


Peter Whiffle 


their ignorance that prevented them from realizing the 
debt he owed to Samuel Butler. Cabell might, with jus- 
tice, voice a similar complaint, for if he ever had a liter- 
ary father it was Arthur Machen. In that author's The 
Chronicle of Clemendy, issued in 1888, may be discovered 
the same confusion of irony and romance that is to be 
traced in the work of Cabell. Moreover, like The Soul of 
Melicent, the book purports to be a translation from an 
old chronicle. I might further speak of the relation- 
ship between Hieroglyphics and Beyond Life, The Hill 
of Dreams and The Cream of the Jest, although in each — 
case the treatment and the style are entirely dissimilar. 
Machen even preceded Cabell in his use of unfavourable 
reviews (Vide the advertising pages of Beyond Life) in 
his preface to the 1916 edition of The Great God Pan. 
Perhaps, added Peter, Cabell has also read Herman 
Melville’s Mardi to some advantage. But he is no pla- 
giarist ; 1 am speaking from the point of view of literary 
genealogy. Peter, at my instigation, read a novel or two 
of Joseph Hergesheimer’s. Linda Condon, he reported, 
is as evanescent as the spirit of God. Only those who 
have encountered Lady Beauty among the juniper trees 
in the early dawn will feel this book, and only those who 
feel will understand. For Hergesheimer has worked a 
miracle ; he has brought marble to life, created a vibrant 
chastity. He has described ice in words of flame! 

One night, quite accidentally, we saw the name of 
Clara Barnes on a poster in front of the Metropolitan 


[232] 


His Life and Works 


Opera House. She was singing the réle of the Priestess 
in Aida. We purchased two general admission tickets 
and slipped in to hear her. The Priestess, those who 
have heard Aida will remember, officiates in the temple 
scene of the first act but, like the impersonator of the 
Bird in Siegfried, she is invisible. Clara’s voice sounded 
tired and worn, as indeed, it should sound after those 
long years of study. 

We must go back to see her, Peter urged. 

We found a changed and broken Clara. She was dress-. 
ing alone, but on the third floor, and the odour of Coeur 
de Jeannette persisted. She burst into tears when she 
saw us. Meg | 

T can’t do it, she moaned, Why did you ever come? 
I can’t do it. I can only sing with my music in front of 
me. I shall never be able to sing a part which appears 
and there are so few roéles in opera, which permit you 
to sing back of the scenery ! I can’t remember. Now she 
was wailing. As fast as I learn one part I forget another. 

As we walked away on Fortieth Street, Peter began to 
relate an incident he had once read in Plutarch: There 
was a certain magpie, belonging to a barber at Rome, 
which could imitate any word he heard. One day, a 
company of passing soldiers blew their trumpets before 
the shop and for the next forty-eight hours the magpie 
was not only mute but also pensive and melancholy. It 
was generally believed that the sound of the trumpets 
had stunned the bird and deprived him of both voice and 


[233] 


Peter Whiffle 


hearing. It appeared, however, that this was not the 
case for, says Plutarch, the bird had all the time been 
occupied in profound meditation, studying how to imi- 
tate the sound of the trumpets, and when at last master 
of the trick, he astonished his friends by a perfect imi- 
tation of the flourish on those instruments he had heard, 
observing with the greatest exactness all the repetitions, 
stops, and changes. This lesson, however, had appar- 
ently been learned at the cost of the whole of his intelli- 
gence, for it made him forget everything he had learned 
before. 

We visited many out-of-the-way places together, 
Peter and I, the Negro dance-halls near 135th Street, 
and the Italian and the Yiddish Theatres. Peter once 
remarked that he enjoyed plays more in a foreign lan- 
guage with which he was unfamiliar. What he could 
imagine of plot and dialogue far transcended the ac- 
tuality. We often dined at a comfortable Italian res- 
taurant on Spring Street, on the walls of which birds 
fluttered through frescoed arbours, trailing with fruits 
and flowers, and where the spaghetti was too good to 
be eaten without prayer. In an uptown café, we had a 
strange adventure with a Frenchwoman, La Tigresse, 
which I have related elsewhere.! Peter refused, in these 
last months, to go to concerts, especially in Carnegie 
Hall, the atmosphere of which, he said, made it impos- 
sible to listen to music. The bare walls, the bright lights, 


1 In the Garret. 


[234] 


His Life and Works 


the sweating conductors, and the silly, gaping crowd 
oppressed his spirit. He envied Ludwig of Bavaria who 
could listen to music in a darkened hall in which he 
was the only auditor. Conditions were more favour- 
able in the moving picture theatres. The bands, per- 
haps, did not play so well but the auditoriums were 
more subtly lighted, so that the figures of the audience 
did not intrude. 

Peter was more of a recluse than ever. It had been 
impossible to persuade him to meet anybody since the 
Edith Dale days (Edith herself was now living in New 
Mexico and, owing to a slight misunderstanding, I had 
not seen or heard from her in five years). He was even 
sensitive and morbid on the subject. He made me prom- 
ise, as a matter of fact, after the Walter Hunter episode, 
that in case we encountered any of my friends in a res- 
taurant or at a theatre, I would not introduce him. 
There was, I assured myself, a good reason for this. 
In these last days, Peter faded out in a crowd. He lost 
a good deal of his personality even in the presence of a 
third person. I begged him to go with me to Florine 
Stettheimer’s studio to see her pictures, which I was 
sure would please him, but he refused. He liked to stroll 
around with me in odd places and he read and played 
the piano a good deal, but he seemed to have few other 
interests. He was absolutely ignorant of such matters 
as politics and government. He never voted and I have 
heard him refer to the president, and not in jest, as 


[235] 


Peter Whiffle 


Abraham Wilson. Sports did not amuse him either, but 
occasionally we went together to see the wrestlers at 
Madison Square Garden, especially when Stanislaus 
Zbyszko was announced to appear. 

He never went to Europe again although, shortly 
before he died, he talked of a voyage to Spain. He 
visited his mother at Toledo several times and he had 
planned a trip to Florida, the climate of which he found 
particularly soothing to his malady, in January, 1920. 
Occasionally he just disappeared, returning again, some- 
what mysteriously, without any explanation, without, 
indeed, any admission that he had been away. I knew 
him too well to ask questions and, to say truth, there 
was something very sweet about these little mystifica- 
tions. Privacy was so dear a privilege to him that even 
with his nearest friends, of which, assuredly, I was one, 
perhaps the nearest in this last year, it was essential to 
his happiness that he should maintain a certain re- 
straint, a certain reserve, I had almost said, a certain 
mystery, but, curiously, there was nothing theatrical 
about Peter, even in his most theatrical performances. 
Just as by the fineness of his taste, Rembrandt softened 
the hideousness of a lurid subject in his Anatomy Les- 
son, so the exquisite charm of Peter’s personality over- 
came any possible repugnance to pee he sabi 
choose to do. Tot a 

During this last year in New Nore te lived in an 
old house on Beekman Place, that splendid row, just 


[236] 


His Life and Works 


two blocks long, of mellow brown-stone dwellings, with 
flights of steps, which back upon the East River at 
Fiftieth Street. We often sat on the balcony, looking 
over towards the span of the Queensboro Bridge, Black- 
well’s Island, with its turreted and battlemented castles 
so like the Mysteries of Udolpho, watching the gulls 
sweep over the surface of the water, the smoke wreathe 
from the factory chimneys, and the craft on the river, 
with cargoes ‘‘of Tyne coal, road-rails, pig-lead, fire- 
wood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays,” of the city, but 
seemingly away from it, with our backs to it, literally, 
indeed, while life ebbed by. And, at my side, too, I saw 
it slowly ebbing. 

The interior, one of those fine old New York in- 
teriors, with high ceilings, bordered with plaster guil- 
loches, white carved marble fire-places, sliding doors, 
and huge crystal chandeliers, whose pendants jingled 
when some one walked on the floor above, it had been 
his happy fancy to decorate in the early Victorian man- 
ner. The furniture, to be sure, was mostly Chippen- 
dale, Sheraton, and Heppelwhite, but there were also 
heavy carved walnut chairs, upholstered in lovely fig- 
ured glazed chintzes. The mirrors were framed in four 
inches of purple and red engraved glass. The highboys 
were littered with ornaments, Staffordshire china dogs 
and shepherdesses, splendid feather and shell flowers, 
and ormolu clocks stood under glass bells on the man- 
telshelves. He had found a couple of rather worn, but 


[237] 


Peter Whiffle 


still handsome, Aubusson carpets, with garlands of huge 
roses of a pale blush colour. One of these was in the 
drawing-room, the other in the library. An old sampler 
screen framed the fire-place in the latter room. The 
books were curious. Peter was now interested in by- 
ways of literature. I remember such volumes as Thomas 
Mann’s Der Tod in Venedig, Paterne Berrichon’s Life 
of Arthur Rimbaud, Alfred Jarry’s Ubu Roi, with music 
by Claude Terrasse, Jean Lorrain’s La Maison Phili- 
bert, Richard Garnett’s The Twilight of the Gods, the 
Comte de Lautréamont’s Les Chants de Maldoror, 
Leolinus Siluriensis’s The Anatomy of Tobacco, Binet- 
Valmer’s Lucien, Haldane MacFall’s The Wooings of 
Jezebel Pettyfer, James Morier’s Hajji Baba of Ispahan, 
Robert Hugh Benson’s The Necromancers, André Gide’s 
L’Immoraliste, and various volumes by Guillaume Apol- 
linaire. The walls of the drawing-room were hung with 
a French eighteenth century, rose cotton print, the de- 
sign of which showed, on one side, Cupid rowing lustily, 
while listless old Time sat in the bow of the boat, with 
the motto: l’Amour fait passer le Temps; and, on the 
other side, Time propelling the boat, while a saddened 
Cupid, his face buried in his hands, was the down- 
cast passenger, with the motto: Le Temps fait passer 
l'Amour. In the centre, beside a charming Greek temple, 
a nymph toyed with a spaniel, and the motto read: 
l’Amitié ne craint pas le Temps! There were, there- 
fore, no pictures on these walls, but, elsewhere, where 


[238] 


Jaufi¢g saunsoyy fg ydvibojoyd v wot 
aOWId NVWHAAG WOU YAAIN LSVA AHL 


ied ee 


tee 


His Life and Works 


the walls were white, or where they were hung with 
rich crimson Roman damask, as in the library, there 
were a few steel engravings and mezzotints and an early 
nineteenth century lithograph or two. Over his night- 
table, at the side of his bed, he had pinned a photograph 
of a detail of Benozzo Gozzoli’s frescoes in the Palazzo 
Riccardi, the detail of the three youths, and there was 
also a large framed photograph of Cranach’s naive 
Venus in this room. The piano stood in the drawing- 
room, near one of the windows, looking over the river. 
It was always open and the rack was littered with mod- 
ern music : John Ireland’s London Pieces, Béla Bartok’s 
Three Burlesques, Gerald Tyrwhitt’s Three Little Fun- 
eral Marches, music by Erik Satie, Darius Milhaud, 
Georges Auric, and Zoltan Kodaly. I remember one 
day he asked me to look at Theodor Streiche’s Spriiche 
and Gedichte, with words by Richard Dehmel, the sec- 
ond of which he averred was the shortest song ever com- 
posed, consisting of but four bars. 

It was a lovely house to lie about in, to talk in, to 
dream in. It was restful and quaint, offering a pleasing 
contrast to the eccentric modernity of the other homes 
I visited at this period. There was no electricity. The 
chandeliers burned gas but the favourite illumination 
was afforded by lamps with round glass globes of various 
colours, through which the soft light filtered. 

On an afternoon in December, 1919, we were loung- 
ing in the drawing-room. Peter had curled himself into 


[239] 


Peter Whiffle 


a sort of knot on a broad sofa with three carved walnut 
curves at the back. He had spread a knitted coverlet 
over his feet, for it was a little chilly, in spite of the fact 
that a wood fire was smouldering in the fire-place. On 
the table before him there was a highball glass, half-full 
of the proper ingredients, and sprawling beside him on 
the sofa, a magnificent blue Persian cat, which he called 
Chalcedony. George Moore and George Sand had long 
since perished of old age and Lou Matagot had been a 
victim of the laboratory explosion. There was a certain 
melancholy implicit in their absence. Nothing reminds 
us so irresistibly of the passing of time as the short age 
allotted on this earth to our dear cats. The pinchbottle 
and several bottles of soda, a bowl of cracked ice and a 
bowl of Fatima cigarettes, which both of us had grown 
to prefer, reposed conveniently on the table between 
us. I remember the increasing silence as the twilight 
fell, and how, at last, Peter began to talk. 

I wanted to do so much, he began, and for a long 
time, during these past four years, it seemed to me that 
I had done so little. I remembered Zola’s phrase: Mon 
ceuvre, alors, c’était l’Arche, |’Arche immense! Hélas! 
ce que l’on réve, et puis, aprés, ce que I’on exécute! At 
the beginning of the war, I was so very miserable, so 
unhappy, so alone. It seemed to me that I had been a 
complete failure, that I had accomplished nothing. .. . 

I must have raised a protesting hand, for he inter- 
jected, No, don’t interrupt me. I am not complaining 


[240] 


DETAIL FROM BENOZZO GOZZOLI’S MURAL DECORATION, THE GIFTS OF 
THE MAGI, IN THE PALAZZO RICCARDI AT FLORENCE 


His Life and Works 


or asking for sympathy. I am explaining how I felt, not 
how I feel. I never spoke of it, of course, while I felt 
that way. I am only talking about it now because I have 
gone beyond, because, in a sense, at least, I understand. 
I am happier now, happier, perhaps, than I have ever 
been before, for in the past four years I have left behind 
my restlessness and achieved something like peace. I no 
longer feel that I have failed. Of course, I have failed, 
but that was because I was attempting to do something 
that I had no right to attempt. My cats should have 
taught me that. It is necessary to do only what one 
must, what one is forced by nature to do. Samuel But- 
ler has said, and how truly, Nothing is worth doing or 
well done which is not done fairly easily, and some little 
deficiency of effort is more pardonable than any per- 
ceptible excess, for virtue has ever erred rather on the 
side of self-indulgence than of asceticism.... And so, 
in the end, and after all I am still young, I have learned 
that I cannot write. Is a little experience too much to 
pay for learning to know oneself? I think not, and that 
is why, now, I feel more like a success than a failure, 
because, finally, I do know myself, and because I have 
left no bad work. I can say with Macaulay: There are 
no lees in my wine. It is all the cream of the bottle. ... 

I have tried to do too much and that is why, perhaps, 
I have done nothing. I wanted to write a new Comédie 
Humaine. Instead, I have lived it. And now, I have © 
come to the conclusion that that was all there was for 


[241] 


Peter Whiffle 


me to do, just to live, as fully as possible. Sympathy 
and enthusiasm are something, after all. I must have 
communicated at least a shadow of these to the ideas 
and objects and people on whom I have bestowed them. 
Benozzo Gozzoli’s frescoes—now, don’t laugh at what 
I am going to say, because it is true when you under- 
stand it—are just so much more precious because I have 
loved them. They will give more people pleasure be- 
cause I have given them my affection. This is some- 
thing ; indeed, next to the creation of the frescoes, per- 
haps it is everything. 

There are two ways of becoming a writer: one, the 
cheaper, is to discover a formula: that is black magic; 
the other is to have the urge: that is white magic. I 
have never been able to discover a new formula ; I have 
worked with the formule of other artists, only to see 
the cryptogram blot and blur under my hands. My ma- 
nipulation of the mystic figures and the cabalistic secrets 
has never raised the right demons... . 

What is there anyway? All expression lifts us far- 
ther away from simplicity and causes unhappiness. .. . 
Material, scientific expression: flying-machines, mov- 
ing pictures, and telegraphy are simply disturbing. 
They add nothing valuable to human life. Any novel- 
ist who invokes the aid of science dies a swift death. 
Zola’s novels are stuffed with theories of heredity but 
ideas about heredity change every day. The current 
craze is for psychanalytic novels, which are not half 


[242] 


His Loufe and Works 


so psychanalytic as the books of Jane Austen, as pos- 
terity will find out for itself... . Art in this epoch is too 
self-conscious. Everybody is striving to do something 
new, instead of writing or painting or composing what is 
natural.... Even the disturbing irony and pessimism 
of Anatole France and Thomas Hardy add nothing 
to life. We shall be happier if we go back to the begin- 
nS. 4: 

The great secret is the cat’s secret, to do what one 
has to do. Let IT do it, let IT, whatever IT is, flow 
through you. The writer should say, with Sancho Panza, 
De mis vifias vengo, no sé nada. Labanne, in Le Chat 
Maigre, cries: Art declines in the degree that thought 
develops. In Greece, in the time of Aristotle, there 
were only sculptors. Artists are inferior beings. They 
resemble pregnant women; they give birth without 
knowing why. And again, to quote my beloved Samuel 
Butler, No one understands how anything is done unless 
he can do it himself ; and even then he probably does not 
know how he has done it. I might add that very often 
he does not know what he has done. Sterne wrote Tris- 
tram Shandy to ridicule his personal enemies. Dickens 
began Pickwick to give the artist, Seymour, an oppor- 
tunity to draw Cockney sportsmen and he concluded 
it in high moral fervour, with the ambition to wipe out 
bribery and corruption at elections, unscrupulous at- 
torneys, and Fleet Prison. To Cervantes, Don Quixote 
was a burlesque of the high-flown romantic literature 


[243] 


Peter Whiffle 


of his period. To the world, it is one of the great ro- 
mances of all time... . 

You see, I am beginning to understand why I haven’t 
written, why I cannot write. ... That is why I am un- 
happy no longer, why I am more peaceful, why I do not 
suffer. But, and now a strange, quavering note sounded 
in his voice, if I had found a new formula, who knows 
what I might have done? 

He turned his face away from me towards the back 
of the sofa. The cat was purring heavily, almost like 
the croupy breathing of a child. It was quite dark out- 
side, and there was no light in the room save for the 
flicker that came from the dying embers. There was a 
long silence. In trying afterwards to reckon its length, 
I judged it must have been fully half an hour before I 
spoke. It was a noise that broke the charm of the still- 
ness. The dead end of the log split over the andirons 
and fell into the fire-place. 

Peter, I began. 

He did not move. 

Peter. ... I rose and bent over him. The clock struck 
six. The cat stirred uneasily, rose, stretched his enor- 
mous length; then gave a faint but alarmingly porten- 
tous mew and leaped from the couch. 

Peter ! 

He did not answer me. 


April 29, 1921 


New York [244] 


A NOTE ON THE TYPE 
IN WHICH THIS BOOK IS SET 


This book has been sel, on the Monotype, tn Cochin, which 
was adapted from the type cul by G. Peignot et Fils, Parts. 
It is the result of an effort to reproduce the work of the 
French eighteenth century copperplate engravers; nol a copy 
of the design of any particular founder but evolved after 
careful study of the faces of that period. In plan it ts not 
strictly old style but possesses a number of modern charac- 
teristics, and can well be called a twentieth century letter 
adapted from an eighteenth century model. 


SET UP, ELECTROTYPED, PRINTED AND 
BOUND BY THE PLIMPTON PRESS, 
NORWOOD, MASS. * PAPER FURNISHED 
BY H. LINDENMEYR & SONS, 
NEW YORK « ILLUSTRATIONS 
PRINTED IN AQUATONE BY ED- 
WARD STERN & CO., PHILA- 
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DESIGNED BY 
ELMER ADLER 


ae 


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Mr. 


Pla de 


as 


— 


